Big Brother is Watching You
by Baywood
Summary: Stiles falls down a rabbit hole, and lands in his mom's funeral, 10 years ago. First on his agenda: save Laura Hale. All he has to do is lay low for 5 years until he can. No problem, right? Right. Or the one where Stiles gets into trouble all the time, earns a badass reputation, takes up hunting on the side, and still ends up tripping through Beacon Hills' supernatural snafus.
1. Chapter 1

Noah Stilinski had become a cop to help people. It might be cliché, but it was the truth. The world was full of hurting people, and if he could do something about it, he wanted to. But today, the hurting people were him and his son, and the hurt wasn't something a cop could fix. So today, he wasn't a cop, he was a father and husband. Stiles was tucked into his side, with Scott clutching his hand on the other side. Noah focused on that.

But as the dirt covered the coffin wrapped around Claudia's body, Noah found someone else, someone unexpected, hurting. Some people attending the funeral weren't grieving so much as they were supporting their sheriff and friend. Many had known Claudia though, before her mind had been lost to the dementia, and mourned her loss alongside him. But then the mourners slowly filtered away from Claudia's fresh grave, revealing the figure a boy small and uncertain on the fringes of the crowd.

He wasn't dressed for a funeral. His jeans were dirty and scuffed, and his red hoodie was torn and slashed in the front. Noah thought he saw blood stains, but it was hard to tell with the color. What he could see of the boy's face was covered in purple bruises and angry scuffs and smudges of dirt. Noah couldn't imagine why the boy was in a cemetery, or what had happened that would lead him there, but the kid looked devastated. As the last few people drifted back to their cars, Noah turned to Melissa. Dear, strong Melissa who'd been such good friends with Claudia.

"Hey," Noah said quietly. Melissa's red rimmed eyes met Noah's, and he jerked his head toward the boy. "Can you take the boys? I'll catch up in a minute."

Melissa followed the motion until she saw what Noah had seen. She glanced between Noah and the stranger for a moment before she nodded ushered the boys toward the car.

Noah watched them go a minute before returning his attention to the boy. He'd like nothing better than to go home and find something to make him forget, just for a little while. But he felt… somehow he felt he owed it to Claudia's memory, and her kindness, to do this. And maybe he was a little curious as well. Slipping his hands in his pockets and adopting an air of casualness, he headed over to the boy. He looked like he'd been through the wringer. Maybe a victim of abuse? Maybe he'd known Claudia? Maybe she'd helped him? Noah could absolutely believe that Claudia would have the heart to do that, but she hadn't really been in the position to do so for quite a while. He was also fairly certain she would have told him about it.

As Noah approached he took in more concerning details. Watery brown eyes stared at the grave and pale hands trembled at his side. His left eye was swollen and black, the right bruised from lack of sleep. His face was dirty and tired. Long cuts like a strike from a clawed animal scabbed over across his jaw and his neck.

Experience told Noah that directly confronting the problem would only close the boy off, so he gently asked instead, "Did you know her?"

The boy turned to him, looking up through his lashes. His eyes were heavy, haunted with grief. He looked more like someone grieving the loss of his whole family, or his entire world, not one woman he didn't know very well. "Yeah," he replied, his voice hoarse and low. "A long time ago. Hadn't seen her in... nine or ten years, I guess."

As he spoke, Noah realized his assessment of his age was off. He was probably more of a young man than a boy. Still young, but maybe more like 20 than 15. His loose clothing and battered body had fooled Noah into thinking him younger. If it had been a decade since the boy had seen Claudia, then it definitely would have been before her dementia. He probably would've been closer to 10.

The kid looked back at the grave. "She was... she was kind to me."

"That sounds like Claudia," Noah said. With the heavy weight of grief hovering in the air, Noah almost felt obligated to tell this young man that he was sorry for his loss, instead of accepting the platitude himself.

He glanced back at Noah and started, "Was she... Did she ever..." Grunting softly to himself, the kid scrubbed his face with his hands. "Never mind."

"What is it?" Noah pressed, tone gentle.

The kid shook his head. "It seems silly to ask now."

How to respond to that? Noah wasn't sure. He followed the kid's gaze toward Claudia's grave and released a long slow breath. He turned back towards the young man beside him. If Claudia had made such an impact on the young man, Noah felt he owed it to her memory to at least try to help him. "Is there something wrong, son?"

The young man scoffed a little at the question. "It'd be easier to ask if there was anything right."

Noah frowned at the bitterness and sadness in his voice. "Alright. Is anything right?"

The kid gaze flickered over to him, and Noah could tell he'd surprised him. "No... well, one thing. I've got a chance to... to do better. I just, I just don't know where to start. It seems impossible. Huge. I don't know if I can do it."

Well now he was completely sure that the kid was mixed up in something he shouldn't be—drugs, alcohol, gangs, the list possibilities was long. Noah would be willing to bet that Claudia's death wasn't the main tragedy weighing the young man down. "Tell you what, son. I'm the sheriff of this town. Why don't come to the station in a few days and talk to me?" he suggested.

The young man glanced at him but didn't respond.

"Maybe I can help you find out where to start," Noah went on. "Or maybe you can just ask me those questions that seem too silly to ask right now. How does that sound?"

The kid chewed on his lip for a moment. He cleared his throat and said, "Yeah, that... that sounds, uh, good. I'll..." He sighed and shut his eyes. "Yeah, that's good. I'll see you in a few days, Sheriff."

Looking at the lines of exhaustion digging into his face and weighing down his shoulders, Noah didn't really want to leave this strange, broken young man beside him. But Stiles was waiting for him, and he needed his dad a lot more than this stranger needed the Sheriff right now. This was the best he could do for the moment.

Noah clasped the young man's shoulder gently. "Don't skip town on me," he said lightly. "I want to help."

His comment earned him a wobbly smile. Noah returned it, wobbliness and all, then turned and headed for the cars and his son.

* * *

Noah was struggling—grieving and struggling and drinking. He'd gone back to work earlier than he should have, but he needed it. He couldn't cope with staying at home. Claudia's ghost seemed to haunt the place, especially after he'd downed a few. Stiles spent a lot of time with the McCalls. Noah had honestly expected Stiles to slow down, or retreat in on himself, but he didn't. His motor mouth just got worse. He filled up every moment of potential silence with chatter and ramblings. He ran everywhere. The speed at which he lived life just got faster, like he was running as fast as he could away from the tragedy he'd experienced. Like he was trying to fill up the silences and gaps his mother left with as much sound as he could cram into them.

Noah didn't know what to do. Just thinking about how he was supposed to help his son deal with his grief was enough to make him want to reach for the bottle. The first time he came back in for a shift, Noah mentioned to his deputies that if a dark-haired young man came in to see him to let him through. Then he buried himself under his work and tried to help people. That was the best he could do right now.

After a few days, the young man from Claudia's funeral finally showed himself. Noah offered him a chair when he came in, but the young man didn't take it. Noah contemplated standing up in response, but he didn't. The kid was shifting from left to right, wringing his hands together. He kept his head down, eyes fixed on the floor. The tense line of his shoulders and nervous energy made it look like he was ready to bolt. Noah waited a moment for him to speak, and just observed. He was wearing the same clothes Noah had seen him in at the funeral, jeans and a red hoodie both scuffed and ragged, but he'd cleaned up a little. His clothes were no longer dirty, and neither was he. His injuries were healing, but the cuts still looked stark against his pale skin and his bruises were a sickly yellow-purple that indicated their age. It was hard to tell when he was hunched over, but Noah thought the swelling around his black eye was almost gone.

"I wasn't going to come," the kid blurted, head still down. His shaggy dark hair fell around his face, making it harder to see his expression.

Noah didn't need an expression to tell him what the young man was feeling. Finally standing, Noah came around his desk and approached him. "Hey, I'm glad you did come."

The kid still wasn't looking at him, so Noah slowly reached out to grasp his shoulders. "Why don't you tell me your name, son?"

He drew in a sharp breath, the exhaled slowly and shakily.

"Hey," Noah said softly, hoping to get the young man to look at him.

After a moment, he flicked his eyes upward. Then he lifted his head, trepidation written in the press of his lips and the furrow of his eyebrows.

Noah almost choked on air because now, with the swelling gone down and the dirt cleaned off and the bruises fading and Noah un-distracted by the burying of his wife, this young man looked exactly like Stiles and so like Claudia. He had Claudia's nose, Claudia's hair, Claudia's eyes, Claudia's coloring, her moles, her lips, her cheekbones, and her father's crazy eyebrows.

Noah's brain kick-started and then went into overdrive. Had Claudia had another child? Had she had an affair? No, no, no, no, definitely not. Noah would've noticed her pregnant with another child. Besides, if this kid was 20 or thereabouts, then that would've been before he and Claudia married, probably before they dated too. And maybe he was older than he looked. Maybe she'd had him before she'd ever even met Noah. That meant there had been lies, but no affair. But, dear God above, Noah was absolutely and 100% sure that this was Claudia's son standing in front of him and it hurt. Somehow, it hurt even more than looking at Stiles did these days, because with the long hair and the look in his eyes he reminded Noah so much of Claudia in the hospital, suffering from dementia, trying to hold on but slowly losing her mind.

"It's not what you think!" Claudia's son blurted again, after the extended moment of silence. "She didn't, she would never have, I mean, you aren't thin—oh God, I shouldn't have come. I, I'm sorry, I—"

Noah tightened his hold as the kid started to pull back. "No," he tried to say, voice cracking.

Claudia's son stilled, and Noah cleared his throat. "No," he said, his voice stronger. "Stay. You... uh, you're too old for it to have been a, uh, an affair. If you're... how old are you?"

The young man stared at him uncertainly with Claudia's eyes. "Twenty-one," he answered after a moment.

Noah nodded, letting go of him. "We've only been... we were only married 16 years. Dated for 3."

Long, pale fingers tangled in Claudia's hair and ran through it, tugging on the thick locks. "Yeah, yeah I... I know."

Noah felt himself at a loss for what to say next and found himself staring as those fingers rubbed Claudia's nose then scrubbed across a Claudia's cheekbones.

"It's still not exactly what you think," Claudia's son said with a sigh.

"Why don't we sit, and you can tell me exactly what it is," Noah said, motioning to the couch. He grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the couch. No way in hell was he having this conversation with a desk between them.

After a moment, Claudia's son sank down onto the couch. He sat on the edge, and his finger immediately began drumming against his knee.

It was likely just nervous energy, completely understandable, but something made Noah wonder if the fidgeting was more. "ADHD?" he asked, trying to make his voice casual and not shaky.

The kid froze, then nodded and resumed the drumming.

"My son, Stiles, has the same thing," Noah offered. He had hoped a bit of conversation might help the younger man relax, but if anything, it seemed to key him up even more.

"I'm just gonna try to ease into this," Claudia's son said, brushing aside the attempt at conversation. "God, I hope you believe this."

"I'm listening," Noah assured him, sitting back in his chair and keeping his posture open. He was about ready to believe anything this young man told him.

"I'm not just her son," he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. He met Noah's eyes, gaze pleading and almost desperate. "I'm yours too."

Noah stared at him for a second, feeling his brain short-circuit for a second before he wondered what the boy was playing at. "Except, as we've already established, I hadn't even met Claudia when you would've been born," Noah countered, keeping his voice level and reasonable. Why would the kid feel he needed to convince Noah he was his son as well as Claudia's? If he was going to make up a story, this was one of the least believable routes he could've chose. "She wasn't even in the country around the time you would've been conceived. She spent a few years in Poland with her parents."

Claudia's son nodded. "Because her dad was sick, and her mom had an old injury. She came back to the States when they died."

"Right," Noah confirmed. He wondered how he knew this. Even if Claudia had begun to raise him, the baby was out of the picture by the time Noah met her. But he'd mentioned that he'd last seen her when he was... 11, if Noah remembered correctly. Regardless, if he knew all this, why was he claiming to be Noah's son as well as hers?

"Thing is..." the kid began, taking a deep breath. "I wasn't born two years before you met her. I was born April 8, 1995."

It took Noah a long moment for Noah to comprehend what the kid meant by that, but it must've shown on his face when it clicked because the kid started wringing his hands and rambling.

"I'm Stiles. I mean, I was. I guess I still am. It's confusing, but I was born Stiles in 1995 and I grew up and I lived all the way to 2016, but now it's 2006, and I didn't really mean for this to happen, but it did. And now I'm here and I should do something with it, because I don't really want to go back to 2016 because it really, really sucked and I don't know if I can really change anything, but I've got to try. I have no idea where to start, plus there's the fact that I don't even exist. I mean, I do, but not as a 21-year-old college dropout that I was. Am. Whatever. And all of this isn't really relevant because I haven't even convinced you I am who I say I am, which, really, is the point of me coming here. Except I don't really know how to convince you because last time it took a really long time and it was hard and you didn't believe me then, plus I had werewolf and banshee friends to help convince you it was real. But all the werewolves I knew don't know me now so—"

"Are you trying to tell me that you're my 11-year-old son and you time traveled to 2006?" Noah said incredulously, bringing the rant to a screeching halt. That was even more unbelievable than Noah getting drunk and having a one-night stand he didn't remember, or something along those lines.

The kid flushed a little. "I was trying to avoid the words 'time traveled.' In 2013 you said you drew the line at time travel."

"I can't imagine why," Noah grumbled. He wanted a drink. This is not what he'd thought he'd be dealing with and he definitely didn't want to be dealing with it now. Was this kid out of his mind?

"I kinda only came back with what I had on me at the time, so I really don't know how to convince you. I mean," he gave a short, mildly hysterical laugh. "I've got my moles, all in the same place as 11-year-old me, but..."

Noah's eyes were reflexively drawn to the kid's face where, indeed, where all the same moles in all the same spots. "Forgive me if I'm not willing to stake my belief in time travel and the supernatural on the formation of your moles."

The kid snorted and leaned back a little. Then he froze. "Oh, I am so stupid," he groaned. He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out his phone. The casing was battered, and it was clearly well used, but Noah had never seen a cellphone like it before. It didn't have a keyboard or an antenna. It was just a big rectangular screen. Standing, the kid snagged the other chair and dragged over next to Noah as he turned it on and found what he was looking for. He handed to phone to Noah and plopped down next to him.

Noah stared at the picture, brain trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

"Me and Scott," came the helpful voice next to him.

It was definitely Scott and Stiles. Scott had the same floppy hair and adorable smile. His uneven jawline was more pronounced than before. Now. Whichever. In the picture Stiles had his arm thrown around Scott's shoulder. His hair was buzzed, but his grin was the same as now. Noah glanced from the picture, to the young man beside him, and back to the picture. He could see how this would be the halfway point between his Stiles and this one. Noah's mind scrambled for some sort of explanation for what he was seeing, but he had nothing.

"Sophomore year," the kid—Stiles—damn, was he really listening to this?—explained. "Just before everything went to hell. We were gonna make first line."

"Did you?" Noah asked, eyes roving over the two boys' lacrosse uniforms.

"Later I did. But Scott made it that year because he was a werewolf," was the answer.

"Scott's a werewolf?!" Noah jerked around to stare at the kid. "But he's asthmatic!"

"Not yet!" the kid corrected hastily. "He got bitten a few days after this picture. Asthma mostly went away and then he was suddenly an athlete. Got pretty good. We both did."

Noah could feel his skeptical disbelief warring with his instincts, which were telling him this young man was telling the absolute truth. Or at least, what he believed was the absolute truth. Still. Time travel.

"Here," Stiles—not Stiles?—leaned over and dragged is finger across the screen. The picture followed his finger, then disappeared, replaced by the next picture.

They went through all the pictures Stiles-not-Stiles had. Noah listened as the young man explained each one, how werewolves' eyes flared in a camera lens, then how many werewolves he actually knew, and how he knew more than werewolves—banshees, kitsune, werecoyotes, chimeras, more. He showed him all his friends—Lydia, Allison, Malia, Liam, Derek, Cora, Mason, Cory, Kira. He explained how he'd become friends, then more, with Lydia. How Scott had become an alpha werewolf and gotten a hot girlfriend who kicked ass, then another hot girlfriend who kicked ass, and one last hot girlfriend that kicked ass. How Derek Hale had come back to Beacon Hills to look for his sister and found her dead. Eventually the explanations died down, and Stiles-not-Stiles quieted, waiting for him to say something.

"Are you sure you time traveled?" Noah asked. "Because I'm thinking alternate reality where you have friends and your girlfriend is Lydia Martin."

Stiles-not-Stiles snorted. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad."

Noah stilled, but the young man didn't appear to notice that he just called a man who wasn't sure he was his son 'Dad.'

"Not all of it was good though," he went on. "A lot of it was really really bad. It was especially bad before I ended up here."

Noah didn't know what to say to that, so he went back to staring at the phone and the last picture that it had—it was Scott, Lydia, Stiles, and a girl named Malia.

"Do, uh, do you believe me?"

Noah sighed and stared a moment longer at the picture that had no explanation beyond freak coincidence or the supernatural. He hated that the latter was technically the more likely explanation. The only other idea he could come up with some sort of sci-fi conspiracy theory that was just as likely as magic, because this technology didn't exist as he knew it. "It's a lot to wrap my head around, but, probably."

"What are you gonna do about it?"

'Nothing' was on the tip of his tongue, but then Noah stopped and looked at the young man, at Stiles. "Do you need my help?"

"I—" he began, only to pause. "Well, my two immediate problems are the fact that I don't exist as I am and figuring out what to do next. The first problem I should probably figure out myself since the law doesn't really allow for time traveling, but maybe you could help me figure out what to do next?"

Noah handed this older Stiles back his phone and shook his head. "Honestly, I have no idea how to help you figure things out. I'll listen, but I doubt I'll be able to offer much. Getting through the government to help you exist though, I can do." He could hardly believe he'd just said that, but if what he was saying was really true... well, then, exceptions had to be made.

"But wouldn't that involve going against the law? Bending the rules? Lying?" Stiles asked, incredulity coloring his tone.

"This is clearly a special case," Noah responded. "But I doubt we'll have to lie much. We'll just tell the truth for the most part and then adjust some things so that you can legally exist."

The surprise didn't leave the older Stiles' face.

"Don't think you got your clever mind and tendency to bend the rules from your mother, young man," Noah said, mockingly scolding him. It was amazing how easily Noah felt comfortable with him.

The surprise melted into amusement. "I did get my tendency to bend the rules from my mother."

"I'm still the clever one," Noah teased. He rose from his chair and headed for his desk, pulling out a pen and paper. "Now, we'll say that Claudia and I had a one-night stand when we were younger, before we met again later and started dating."

"But you said yourself, she would've been in Poland," Stiles said, following Noah to his desk and then hopping up to sit on it. The movements were easy and confident, like he was used to doing this all the time.

"I'll check to see if she made any trips back to the US before she came back for good," Noah said. "If she didn't, then we'll just pass you off as a year or two younger. Claudia got pregnant with you from our scandalous one night of passion."

Stiles snorted.

"Then, when we met again, we decided to start dating," Noah went on. "It fits, and doesn't sound too coincidental."

"Okay, then, to play devil's advocate, why didn't she tell you about me?" Stiles asked. "And who raised me?"

"Claudia would've found you a family if she, hypothetically, felt she couldn't take care of you on her own," Noah admitted, frowning down at his paper.

"So that means we could convince two people to pretend they fostered or adopted me, we make up some people, or we find some people who died recently," Stiles said.

"Or," Noah tapped his pen against the pad, leaving little dots of ink. "Something terrible happened to you and Claudia thought you had died. It hurt too much to talk about, and she thought she'd save me the pain of gaining a child and then losing him again."

"Plausible." Stiles nodded. "So, what terrible thing happened to my toddler self? Kidnapped? Accident that left us separated?"

"We should probably say criminals," Noah reasoned. "That way we won't have to fake legal documents or incident reports."

"Alright, kidnapped by..." Stiles trailed off with a thoughtful glint in his eye.

Noah let him think, turning the pen over in his fingers.

"How about a cult?" Stiles suggested. "I mean, I have a lot of arcane knowledge what with the whole supernatural stuff for 6 years. It could work. They kidnapped me or took me in. I don't know which because they would obviously say they took me in, but I would be suspicious that they kidnapped me."

"Good," Noah said. "Then let's say you wanted to leave the cult, which of course didn't go over well." Here Noah motioned to the cuts and bruises. "But you got out and gave them the slip."

"From there I went looking for my mother," Stiles continued, without missing a beat. "I knew her name from the cult. I tracked her down with my limited knowledge, hitchhiking until I made it to Beacon Hills, only to arrive at her funeral."

"Tragic is good. Most people will believe in coincidence if it doesn't work in your favor," Noah said. "From the funeral to now can be the truth."

Stiles chewed his lip. "You noticed I looked a lot like Claudia, and a lot like your son, Stiles—truth—so you decide to get a paternity test done."

"The results come back, you are my son," Noah said. Privately he added that if the results came back positive, it would be greater proof of Stiles' story. He was quite sure he'd only ever had one son, so if the paternity test came back positive, then he'd know for sure. "We get the paperwork done, wade through the legal stuff, and you'll officially exist in this time."

Some of the tension and stress seemed to ease out of Stiles shoulders. "That doesn't sound too bad."

"No," Noah said with a small smile. "Now we just need to figure out what to call you. You couldn't have picked up the name Stiles while you were in the cult. You didn't know my name."

"I've, uh, I've been going by Mitch," Stiles said, hands twisting, "when people ask."

Noah paused for a moment. "Mitch like short for Mieczysław?"

"It's close," Stiles said with a shrug. "And it was kind of nice to have something that, uh, you know, connected. Kept me grounded."

"Claudia probably would've named you Mieczysław," Noah mused. "If this whole hypothetical situation were real."

"But that's your Stiles' name," Stiles protested.

"Well, you're my Stiles now too," Noah said seriously. "Besides, I doubt he'll ever use Mieczysław. Not if he can help it."

Stiles stared at him for a moment. "So, what, she named us both Mieczysław?"

"Well, she did think you were dead," Noah pointed out.

"But isn't that, like, a callous way to treat my memory, or something?" Stiles frowned.

"Maybe, but she obviously wouldn't think of it that way," Noah said. "Maybe she just wanted one living Mieczysław. Maybe she thought it would honor both your memory and her father's to name you after both of them. Maybe she thought her first dead son could live on, spiritually, through you."

Stiles looked at him like that was the weirdest thing that had been spoken aloud since he got there, which Noah thought was a little unfair. "On the other hand, Mom's gone, so she doesn't have to explain herself to anyone."

"That too," Noah conceded, ignoring the pang in his chest at the reminder of his loss. "So, legally, you'll be Mieczysław Stilinski the first, but you'll go by Mitch. You'll be my son again, no finding a new identity somewhere else, and then, whatever happens next, we'll figure it out together."

The smile Stiles—soon to be Mitch—gave him was the most genuine Noah had seen since they'd met.

When they went to the hospital to get the paternity test done, they ran into Melissa, of course. Scott and little Stiles were in school, so both their single parents were working. Noah had explained to Melissa their cover story—just the truth of what had happened so far. He skipped, obviously, the discussion of time travel and all that followed and didn't bother with the whole back story yet. As far as anyone else was concerned, Noah and Mitch were just now figuring everything out. They decided it was best to keep the time traveling aspect to themselves, even from close friends like the McCalls. It was a lot to chew on, and they really didn't need their lives flipped over when it wouldn't even affect them. Plus, Mitch didn't really want to explain it again—not now, not yet.

* * *

The paternity test was taken as soon as Melissa could swing it. Noah and Mitch found themselves in a little room as Melissa expedited the process. Mitch sat on the hospital gurney, swinging his legs, while Noah slouched on a hard plastic-topped stool. Noah wasn't sure what his son was thinking. He could admit to feeling a little apprehensive, a part of him wondering if the test would come back negative and he'd have to face the fact that this young man had lied to him for some reason. He didn't think that would happen though. Mitch didn't seem nervous at all, confident in what the results would be.

They sat in silence for a little while until Mitch spoke, his voice quiet and slow. "I don't want anyone to know."

Noah jerked his head up to look at him. "What?"

Mitch stared at his hands for another minute before meeting Noah's eyes. "I don't want anyone to know."

Noah swallowed. He had a feeling they weren't talking about the method of Mitch's arrival, and it wasn't a good feeling. "We already agreed that—"

"I'm not talking about the time travel part," Mitch interrupted.

Noah's stomach dropped. "Look, son," he said, standing up from his uncomfortable seat. "I know this is difficult for you. These are the people you knew but not as you've known them and all that, but running away isn't the answer. I don't want you to be alone out there."

Eyes still fixed on his hands, Mitch chewed his lip and shifted his seat. "That's not it."

Noah waited for him to continue, but when Mitch's frown deepened without a response, he prompted, "Then what is it, son?"

"I mean... that's probably part of it, if you want to go all psychologist on me," Mitch said, offering him a half smile. "But since you've solved my existence problem, I've been thinking a lot about what I'm gonna do next."

"And you don't want to stay here?" Noah asked. He felt his heart drop into his chest at the idea, and he marveled at how quickly he'd accepted this young man into his family—and how much the idea of losing him so soon after Claudia hurt.

"It isn't that I don't want to stay here," Mitch said, shifting back and forth again. "It's just that... a lot of bad shit happened to me and to Beacon Hills, and if I can, I want to fix that. I've got the advantage of foreknowledge here, but if I stay here, I risk losing it. Everything I do here risks changing what I remember happening and makes it harder for me to change the future, if that's even possible for me to do."

Noah hated how logical that sounded. "How, uh," he scrubbed his hands over his face. "How long would you have to stay away?"

"At least 5 years," Mitch said, chewing on his lip. "If no one knows about me or what I managed to do, then everything will stay the same up to sophomore year, right before Scott got bitten. I'll come back to save Laura Hale from being murdered by her uncle, then stop her uncle from murdering a bunch of other people."

Noah's eyebrows shot up. "Laura Hale's comatose uncle?"

"That's the one," Mitch said with a sigh. "He's a real douche bag."

"And then?" Noah asked. "Will you stay?"

Mitch paused a moment. "I'm not sure. At that point, a lot of things will have changed, so I don't know if it'll be worth it to protect what little foreknowledge I have. It would really depend on how much changed and how people reacted to what I did."

Noah frowned, pressing his lips together. The words he wanted to say laid heavy on his chest, and it took a minute to force them out. "I want you to stay, son."

He received a genuine but tired smile in response. "It'd be easier to stay," Mitch said. "But this is the right thing to do. It's the best thing to do."

"But where will you go?" Noah asked. "What will you do? That's 5 whole years of living doing something else, somewhere else, before you can come back here and do what you need to do."

"I've got a lot to learn, Dad." Mitch slid off the bed to stand up, coming up to Noah. "I can study druid magic. I already started learning, back in my time. I've gotten pretty good with using it, but if I studied it, I could help more, help better. I'd know enough to be able to handle all these threats better."

"So, what, you're going to leave and find someone to teach you magic?" Noah asked.

"Maybe," Mitch said. "I've always been a kinda learn-on-my-own, learn-by-doing kinda guy, but I'll definitely need people to help me out. I thought I'd travel, meet people, make connections, whatever I can do to be better."

"And you don't want me to tell anyone that you exist." Noah didn't like that. He didn't like that at all. He didn't want to lose this boy after he'd just gained him. It felt like losing another piece of Claudia.

"Right." Mitch nodded, firmly, once. "It's for the best."

"You'd have no one," Noah reached out to grip Mitch by the shoulders. "Mitch, you'd be all alone out there. And you've basically just lost everything you've ever known. Your family, your friends, your girlfriend. You'll never have it the same way again, and you may be hiding it, but I know you're grieving."

Mitch eyes widened for a moment, before his expression blanked and he took a deep breath. "Yeah, but it can't be helped. I have to do this. I have to go. And... and you can't stop me, Dad."

Noah's grip tightened at those words, and Mitch's eyes dropped to the floor, head ducking.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Noah's eyes pricked, and he blinked to dispel the tears. "Alright." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Alright, but you have to promise me something."

Mitch looked up at him through his eyelashes.

"You have to keep in touch with me," Noah said. Mitch opened his mouth to reply, but Noah didn't let him speak. "And when I say keep in touch, I mean weekly phone calls, daily emails. And you have to come see me in person at least once a year, preferably more than that."

"I don't—" Mitch tried.

"I don't care what it'll change about me and how I deal with my wife's death," Noah told him. "You're just going to have to accept that one. I'll cover my tracks when it comes to keeping you from Stiles. Whatever precautions you need to take to hide yourself from younger you, you can take them, but you will keep in contact with me, you hear me?"

Mitch stared silently at him for a long moment.

"You still got me, okay?" Noah said softly.

Mitch's eyes shined, and his mouth moved like he wanted to smile but not start sobbing at the same time. "Okay," he agreed.

"Okay," Noah echoed. He pulled his boy in for a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around his shoulders and doing his damnedest not to start weeping. Mitch hugged him just as tightly back. He didn't know how long they stayed like that, but eventually they broke apart to the polite clearing of a throat.

Melissa was giving them a soft smile, holding a clipboard. "The results came back positive," she told them.

Noah looked back at Mitch as the young man sniffed and wiped quickly at his eyes. With a watery smile he said, "I've gotta go."

"We still have a few things that have to be—" Noah started, but Mitch waved him off.

"I'm not skipping town yet, Sheriff," Mitch assured him with a wan but teasing smile.

"Where are you staying?" Noah asked. "I have a spare room you could use."

Mitch shook his head. "I'll manage. I'll come around the station tomorrow, okay?" He gave Melissa a small smile as he slipped past her and out of the hospital.

Melissa returned the smile, then turned to Noah, eyebrows raised in question.

Noah answered her with a heavy sigh, retaking his stool and scrubbing his hands over his face again.

After a moment, Melissa asked, "He's not staying here?"

Noah shook his head. "And he doesn't want anyone to know about him."

Melissa frowned. "Not even Stiles?"

"Especially not Stiles," Noah said. "I barely convinced him to stay in touch with me, I don't want to jeopardize any of that."

"But he just found his family," Melissa protested. "A family that could use him just about now."

Noah shook his head and considered how to phrase his response in a way that was truthful but kept Mitch's secret—and didn't make him seem like a selfish bastard to Melissa. "No, he, uh, he found his answers, which is what he was looking for. Now, I think, he's going to find himself. Kid's been through a lot, and if he's willing to keep talking to me, then that's all I ask. Would you keep this to yourself, Melissa?"

Melissa frowned. "I don't like it. Stiles deserves to know he's got an older brother."

"Yeah," Noah agreed. "And he will know. But I won't tell him yet. It'd be... it'd be cruel to tell him when that older brother isn't willing to talk to him at all. Let me work on Mitch first."

"Okay," Melissa agreed, pursing her lips a little in disapproval.

Noah smiled gratefully. Melissa was a good friend. He had a feeling both he and Stiles would be needing her a lot in the coming months.

Melissa patted his shoulder. "If you need anything..."

"Thank you."


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey, Dad."

 _"Hey, son."_

"Met my first Dumbledore today," Stiles said into the burner phone pinched between his ear and his shoulder. He shuffled the loose papers on his motel table around, trying to obtain some semblance of order.

After a moment, his dad replied with, _"Today just started, Mitch."_

"Yesterday, whatever," Stiles said, stacking up the books and swishing the papers into a pile.

 _"Did you sleep last night?"_ came the concerned question. _"Do you sleep at all? When's the last time you got a full night's sleep?"_

"Daaaad," Stiles whined into the phone. "I've just got my first ever magical mentor and he's got a long gray beard and everything, and all you can do is grill me on my sleeping habits?"

His dad didn't respond, and no one should have the ability to make silence sound unimpressed all on its own.

Stiles sighed. "I got 4 hours Thursday night. Happy?"

 _"No,"_ his dad said. _"Not if that's the best response you could think of, instead of something like 'I sleep 8 hours every night, this was just an all-nighter.'"_

"I haven't had 8 hours of sleep in one night since I was 17," Stiles admitted, his tone careless as he stacked his pens and his notes in a third pile. "So that's the best you're gonna get, Pops."

A heavy sigh echoed across the line. _"Alright, tell me about Dumbledore."_

Stiles grinned a stood from his chair, stretching out the kinks from his night long study session. "He's as cryptic and mysterious as Deaton. I think it might be a druid thing. But he's more grandfatherly and amused."

 _"Deaton as in Alan Deaton, the veterinarian?"_ his dad asked, tone incredulous.

"That's the one," Stiles said easily, whipping the curtains open and wincing at the unexpectedly bright morning sunlight.

 _"He's a druid?"_

Stiles hummed in response, blinking as his eyes adjusted.

 _"Okay, go on."_

Stiles grinned again. He seriously loved his dad. "He's not a school teacher. Owns a bookshop here in Chattanooga. It's a kinda hole-in-the-wall little shop that's all dim and mysterious and overflowing with books. It's awesome."

 _"You're all the way in Tennessee? Weren't you in Montana last week?"_

"No, I was going to go to Montana," Stiles corrected walking around the room to get his blood moving and to wake up his sleepy limbs. "I was in Boise, and I was thinking that Glacier National Park is a cool place and it sounds like a place druids would go to commune with nature or something, but then I heard about Dumbledore from this emissary I met in Boise, so here I am in Chattanooga."

 _"Okay, shady bookshop in Chattanooga with Dumbledore. I'm following again."_

Stiles chuckled and paced a full circuit around the room. "Pretty sure the emissary from Boise tipped him off that I was coming, because he acted all mysterious and all knowing when I got there. Like 'Ah, Mr. Stilinski, I've been wondering when you would get here.' Like I hadn't just been told about him on Wednesday and driven all Thursday to get here on Friday. I didn't have to do any convincing to get him to teach me though, so that's nice. As long as he doesn't turn out to be evil, because he could be rocking the evil grandpa underneath the Dumbledore look, but I'm trying a new thing where I give some people the benefit of the doubt."

 _"Just some?"_ his dad asked, sounding more awake now. He probably had his coffee at this point.

"Just the ones it would be useful to not be a completely paranoid bastard around," Stiles answered, abandoning his pacing to look for his shoes. "I'm sure it'll bite me in the ass at some point, but it's hard to learn from people you don't trust so I guess I'm gonna trust people until I know enough that I can go back to being a paranoid bastard."

 _"Sounds healthy."_

"It's healthy if it keeps me from dying," Stiles retorted, locating his shoes half under hid duffel bag by the motel bed.

 _"I'll concede that point,"_ his dad said. _"Don't you go dying on me."_

"Scout's honor," Stiles responded, pushing his feet into his boots and grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair.

His dad scoffed at him. _"You were never a boy scout."_

"Too much of a rebel," Stiles agreed, stuffing the motel key into his pocket and heading for the door.

 _"Too much of a delinquent, you mean,"_ his dad corrected.

"Ouch." Stiles slipped outside and took a deep breath of fresh morning air, free from the stale motel room air.

 _"Just telling the truth."_

"I wouldn't mind it if you lied to me, Dad," Stiles said, shutting the motel door and walking over to his truck.

 _"Alright, you're very pretty, son."_

Stiles laughed as he pulled down the tailgate and sat on the back of the truck, feet swinging.

 _"Where are you staying? Not in Dumbledore's back room, I hope."_

"I'm giving people the benefit of the doubt, not putting my life in their hands," Stiles snorted. "Motel 6 isn't so bad."

 _"You're not living off diner food, are you?"_

"I think I'm the one who's supposed to be worried about your eating habits."

"No, this is a normal parent-child concern."

 _"Weird."_

They both laughed. Stiles tipped his head back, enjoying the warm sun and the sound of his dad's voice. More often than not, this was a pretty lonely existence, but right now, he thought everything was going pretty okay. Now if it would just stay this way.

* * *

"Hey, Dad."

 _"Hey, son."_

"Did my first Wingardium Leviosa."

 _"Are you ever going to stop with the Harry Potter jokes?"_

"Not until the novelty of having magic powers wears off."

"So never?"

"Well, I'm working on my wand. Dumbledore says it's ridiculous, but he's letting me do it."

 _"He probably just gave up on you."_

"Probably."

* * *

Noah didn't get the daily communication he wanted, but he got weekly phone calls. Mitch called him up every Saturday a six o'clock in the morning. Noah didn't ask why he chose that time above all others. Maybe he thought it was the safest time, when Stiles was least likely to be up and ready to overhear anything. Maybe it was a small bit of revenge—Noah required weekly phone calls, Mitch wasn't going to let him sleep in on a Saturday ever again. Noah didn't complain. He just rolled out of bed a few minutes before six, got dressed, brushed his teeth, and answered the phone at 6 A.M. on the dot.

 _"Hey, Dad,"_ he greeted every time. He never sounded sleepy or groggy. He always sounded tired though.

"Hey, son," Noah would respond. Then he'd head down to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee while Mitch began to talk. Noah would sit and listen and sometimes talk but mostly drink his coffee while Mitch talked, until he'd say goodbye at 7 A.M. sharp and hang up.

It became a comforting routine for Noah, one that helped keep him sane. There were still days that it got bad and Noah lost himself in his work, or worse his bottle. There were days he was a terrible father to Stiles. There were days he cried and raged and sent Stiles to the McCalls because he didn't trust himself. There were days when he thought there weren't enough good things in the world to justify going on living.

But there was never a Friday night that he didn't push aside the bottle, have a sober dinner with his son, and sleep enough to pick up that phone at six. Stiles must have found it strange. Noah knew it must look strange without context. No matter how bad Noah got during the rest of the week, he reset himself every Friday night, and tried again.

It helped. It wasn't always good. But it helped, so Stiles didn't say anything and neither did Noah.

* * *

"Hey, Dad."

 _"Hey, son."_

"I'm in Baton Rouge."

 _"Did you get tired of Dumbledore, or did he get tired of you?"_

"Neither! He sent me to his buddy Gandalf. Apparently, his area of expertise is closer to my style, or some shit. So now I'm in Baton Rouge."

 _"And how's Louisiana?"_

"There are a lot of snakes."

* * *

Stiles wasn't sure how his designated Call Dad time had ended up being the crack of dawn on Saturday morning. He hadn't exactly been sleeping regularly-hadn't for a long time-and he was lucky to get a few hours every night. That first Friday night/Saturday morning hadn't been one of those nights. Stiles' insomnia had kicked in hard that night, and he read and researched past dawn. The sun had been up for a little while when he called, not bothering to check the time. When his dad had answered with a sleepy hello, Stiles had checked his phone, realized the time, and backtracked.

But his dad wouldn't have any of that, and before Stiles knew it, he was calling every Saturday morning at the butt-crack of dawn. His dad never complained, so Stiles never changed it. It wasn't like he every slept in anymore. It was a nice routine. Comfortable. And it helped that his dad called him Mitch, because otherwise Stiles forgot that it was supposed to be his name now. He still thought of himself as Stiles and saw no reason to change that, but it was a bit inconvenient when you were introducing yourself to people and you momentarily forgot your name. He'd get used to it eventually.

* * *

"Hey, Dad."

 _"Hey, son."_

"Magic through the Power of Belief sucks ass."

 _"The power of belief?"_

"Yeah. Because it'll work if you believe it will, but it won't if you don't and that doesn't make logical sense and it's messing with my head."

 _"That sounds fake."_

"It's really not."

 _"Maybe it's you who should quit. Give up the circus and come home. Find a real job."_

"Ha ha ha. Maybe it's you who should quit, go be a comedian."

 _"I'd be pretty good at it."_

* * *

Robert Baird, aka Gandalf, wasn't as bubbly (for lack of a better term) as Mr. McGLinty, aka Dumbledore, was, but Stiles liked him all the same. For all the man's frustrating teaching methods, he clearly knew what he was doing. He lived in a quaint little cottage in the woods that wasn't so far removed from civilization as to make Stiles nervous, but more than enough to afford the man some privacy.

Baird alternately tried to pound the Power of Belief into his brain and exhausted him by making him exercise what little control Stiles had over his spark until he was ready to keel over.

Stiles knew he was learning a lot, especially from the man's library, but he didn't think he'd be able to keep this up very long.

* * *

"Hey, Dad."

 _"Hey, son."_

"Gandalf's mad at me."

 _"What'd you do?"_

"Told him he could shove his Power of Belief shit right back up his ass where it belongs."

 _"You're an idiot."_

"I know."

* * *

Stiles groveled long enough to get back on Baird's good side before he packed his truck and left. He didn't particularly like Louisiana, and he was itching to move on. He put Baton Rouge in his rear-view mirror and headed North. That's how he ended up on the Mississippi, discovering that river nymphs were, in fact, real, and didn't take well to werewolves in their river.

With no plans on his dashboard, Stiles stopped to help. The pack didn't have an emissary, or much experience dealing with non-werewolves as they were comprised entirely of bitten wolves. Stiles stayed long enough to help them learn better control so that St. Catherine Creek Wildlife Refuge didn't have to deal with crazed werewolves every full moon.

* * *

"Hey, Dad."

 _"Hey, son."_

"I made some new friends."

 _"In Baton Rouge?"_

"No, in Doloroso."

 _"Where is that?"_

"Mississippi."

 _"Who is it this time? Merlin?"_

"Hah, no, just decided on a change of scenery and a break from deceptively old men teaching me magic."

 _"Where to now?"_

"I'm thinking of checking out Homochitto National Forest. Werewolves seem to gravitate toward woodsy areas."

 _"Probably easier than urban areas."_

"Yeah, werewolves of London and all that."

* * *

Stiles did indeed find a werewolf pack running amuck in Homochitto. Most of them lived in Gloster, just outside the forest. They were having trouble with the other werewolf pack also utilizing the forest, but based out of Meadville. Entirely without intention, Stiles found himself mediating the conflict between the pack of born wolves in Gloster and the pack of bitten wolves in Meadville. The Gloster pack had an emissary. The Meadville pack had a werecoyote, a half fae, several humans, and no alpha. Stiles had instantly felt a kinship to the Meadville pack, and before he knew it he was knee deep in the dispute, helping the Meadville pack learn control and trying to convince the Gloster pack to accept them and help them.

After a month of arduous work, both on his part and on the part of the Meadville pack, the Gloster pack was finally coming around. Stiles got them working together, sharing the forest on the full moon and becoming a united (albeit separated by some physical distance) pack. As a bonus, the Gloster pack's emissary, Natalie Tandler, taught him a few things, as well as taking a young human spark from the Meadville under her wing. Stiles learned a lot about wards from her, with some much-needed practical application.

A week after Stiles deemed them settled and happy, he threw his bags into his truck and drove off several friends richer.

* * *

"Hey, Dad."

 _"Hey, son."_

"I'm beginning to doubt the existence of vegetarian wendigos. I've heard about them, but every time I meet them they're gnawing on some poor bastard's insides."

 _"I'm not sure I'm ready for that kind of mental image before coffee."_

"Sorry."

 _"Where are you now?"_

"Wichita. Ran into a pair of Wendigos when I got here, and let me tell you, not the best omen I've ever gotten."

 _"They still alive?"_

"Yeah, but they're in custody for murder and, you know, cannibalism."

* * *

Stiles stayed in Wichita longer than he'd intended, just to give the proverbial omen the proverbial middle finger. As it turned out, it was a terrible idea to ignore that omen, because then he bumped into someone he had really really hoped was dead. The not-dead man accosted him outside the diner Stiles had been heading to for breakfast, scowl murderous.

"Stilinski," he growled. "I'd hoped you were dead."

"The sentiment was mutual, Farwell," Stiles said, grimacing and automatically looking around for any extra goons.

"I'm here alone, Stilinski," Farwell said, spittle flying from his snarling lips. "You killed the rest of my team, remember?"

"Let's be fair," Stiles said, backing away from the spittle. "They were trying their damnedest to kill me first."

"Because you got in the way!" Farwell stepped back into Stiles' space, jamming a finger into his chest.

"I tend to do that," Stiles agreed.

"You'll pay for it," Farwell promised.

Stiles sighed. "Look, Farwell, your little band of merry fanatics got desperate, tried something monumentally stupid, and now we're the only ones left standing to bitch about it. Can't we just leave it at that?"

Farwell shoved him into the alley beside the diner and up against a wall, pulling a gun out from under his jacket and pointing it at Stiles' head.

Stiles grunted, but didn't struggle. Whatever showdown they had, it was best not done in public. "I take it from the constipated rage written on your face that the answer is no?"

Farwell's response was to cock his gun, and shove it against Stiles' gut. "I want you to die, slowly and painfully. It's less than what you deserve."

"Well isn't is a shame that life's just never fair then," Stiles replied, voice low. He smashed his knee up between Farwell's legs just before Farwell pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through his flesh, but it's course was already diverted.

Farwell doubled over and stumbled back while Stiles clutched his side for a moment. He quickly pulled himself together, only a second faster than Farwell, and rammed his elbow into the other man's nose.

Stiles staggered several steps away as Farwell clutched his bleeding nose.

"We can forget this, Farwell," Stiles said. "We're a decade in the past. Our pasts, our grudges don't exist anymore. Let's just move on."

"You un'erestim'et m' abili'y t' hol' a gru'e," Farwell said, voice nasally and eyes watering. His nose was definitely broken.

"That would've been way more dramatic if you're nose wasn't broken," Stiles said, swaying a little to one side. He looked down at his side. Huh. That was bleeding a lot.

A whirl of sirens echoed in Stiles' ears. His vision was darkening, but he made out Farwell snatching up his gun, shoving it underneath his jacket, and taking off. Immediate danger gone, Stiles pressed against the bullet hole in his side and sank carefully to the ground. He blacked out before the police or the paramedics arrived at the scene.

Bad omen indeed.

* * *

"Hey, Dad."

 _"Mitch! You're alright!"_

"The hospital called you."

 _"Of course they did, I'm your father. I've already booked a plane ticket. I'll be there by tonight."_

"Dad, no, I'm alright."

 _"You were shot!"_

"It's just a flesh wound, and honestly, it isn't a big deal."

 _"Mitch. You were shot. In the gut. In an alleyway."_

"Yes, I know. I was there. But I didn't actually get shot in the gut. The nice nurse glaring at me told me the bullet missed any and all vital organs. I'm just gonna be sore is all."

 _"This doesn't make me feel any better."_

"Dad. You don't need to come."

 _"You can't stop me, Mitch. I've already got a cover story. You had better still be at that hospital when I get there."_

"... alright. But when you get here you'd better chew me out for not paying attention to bad omens."

 _"That's a promise."_

* * *

Noah spent his whole plane ride with worry gnawing in his gut. As soon as he'd gotten a call from the hospital in Wichita, he'd taken a few days off for an emergency, crafted a cover story to fool Stiles and booked his plane ticket. He'd told Melissa what had really happened—Mitch had been traveling, and was shot in a hit and run in Wichita. Melissa immediately agreed to watch out for Stiles while he was gone, and Noah went home to pack his bags and explain to Stiles that he would be away on business. His flight wasn't leaving until 7, so Noah got to the airport early and nearly jumped out of his skin when his phone rang. Noah glanced at his watch. Six o'clock on the dot. He scoffed and answered the phone. He talked to his idiot son for an hour before he had to board the plane.

When he reached Wichita, he rented a car and drove straight to the hospital. He'd deal with a hotel room later. He hurried through the corridors at the directions of the nurse at the front desk and easily found Mitch's room. He slipped in to find his older son sleeping. Noah took the chair next to the bed and held his son's hand. He looked exhausted, dark circles around his eyes, and paler than normal.

"Hey, kiddo," Noah said quietly. "Long time no see, huh? You had me worried, Mitch."

Noah hadn't expected him to wake up. Stiles had always been a heavy sleeper, even with his propensity for pulling all-nighters. But his words had Mitch stirring in his sleep. As much as he wanted him to rest, Noah found that he really just wanted to talk to his son face to face. It'd been, what, a year? He wasn't sure.

"You gonna wake up for me, son?" Noah asked, leaning closer and brushing his hand over Mitch's face. He flicked one of the longer locks of dark hair away from his boy's eyes. "When's the last time you had a decent night's sleep?"

"Bismark," came the sleepy reply.

Noah sighed and squeezed Mitch's hand. "That was two month ago, son."

"Was it?" Mitch shifted to face him, blinking away the film of sleep.

"How you doing, kid?" Noah asked softly.

"They've got me on the good stuff." Mitch grinned. "Can barely feel a thing."

"Good, I guess," Noah said. "I'm glad you're gonna be okay."

"Me too," Mitch said. "Shot in an alleyway would've been an embarrassing way to go. Especially by Farwell of all people."

Noah frowned, feeling the detective in him come forward. "You know the man that shot you?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it," Mitch replied, trying to sit up.

"I'm going to worry about it," Noah assured him, pushing him back against the bed. "Lie back."

"I can handle Farwell." Mitch grimaced as his side jostled, and didn't make another attempt to sit up.

Noah frowned. "Looks like this Farwell came out on top this time."

"I broke his nose," Mitch responded, eyelids drooping.

"Well, forgive me, that's way worse than being shot and almost bleeding out," Noah said.

Mitch hummed a little at that. "You gonna get me out of here?"

"Later, son, later. Rest for now. You need it."

"M'kay."

* * *

"Hey, Dad."

 _"Hey, son."_

"Beacon Hills alright?"

 _"Same as ever. How's Cincinnati?"_

"Gone. Finished studying there for now. I'm in Omaha."

 _"Quiet?"_

"Not really. Ghosts are real."

 _"Really? Ghosts too?"_

"Yeah, go figure. Wasn't a big deal. Stumbled on the haunted area, then ran into the hunters taking care of them."

 _"Hunters? Like the Argents?"_

"Sort of. This was two brothers. Don't really specialize in any one thing. Just take care of nasties in general. Anything that's hurting people, but the law couldn't handle. I kinda like these guys."

 _"You gonna pester them for a while?"_

"Probably. As long as they don't shoot me."

 _"How likely is that?"_

"Well, I'm not gonna tell them I have magic powers."

 _"Just tell them you're Harry Potter. That'll work out just as well."_

"Ha, ha, again with the comedian thing. Maybe I will."

 _"Don't get shot."_

"I'll try."

* * *

Stiles stayed with the two brothers and learned a bit about hunting-the way they did things certainly wasn't as organized as the way the Argents did things. The Argents found the werewolves and kept their eyes on them, found the rogues and hunted them down, and did it all with high-tech equipment and employed goons. The way the two brothers did it was far more like what Stiles had done all high school, except they went looking for trouble instead of waiting for it to find them. They found strange deaths and occurrences, searched for the kind of baddie causing them, found a way to kill it, and then took care of it. Instead of high-tech responses to the monsters, the brothers were just clever about it—shotgun rounds filled with salt, iron bars, and protective sigils.

Basically, they did things the way Stiles would do them, and he fit right in. He stayed for a while before they parted on amicable terms. Taken with their sensible approach to hunting, Stiles found others like them, and found that type of hunter in far more abundance than the legacies of hunting families. Stiles jumped around, going from hunter to hunter and lending a hand. He kept a careful lid on his spark around other hunters, but he didn't think any of them would have too much trouble with him. Stiles was still human. He was more like a psychic than a monster for them to hunt. Unless they thought he was a witch. That would be problematic. Best he kept all magical abilities to himself.

* * *

"Hey, Dad."

 _"Hey, son."_

"Still not dead."

 _"But still hunting?"_

"Yeah, but still not dead, so you can drop the disapproving tone of voice."

 _"Are you hurt?"_

"No, Dad, I'm fine."

 _"Liar."_

"How do you always know?!"

 _"I'm your father. You can't lie to me."_

"Yes, I can!"

 _"How seriously are you injured?"_

"Like, a three."

 _"So, a seven?"_

"You're impossible."

* * *

Stiles hunted a lot, met a lot of grumpy people, made a lot of scary allies, and then heard about a surplus in demon population. Flashbacks to the Nogitsune had Stiles swallowing his fear of needles and getting several anti-possession tattoos for multiple cultures of demons. No way in Hell, was all he had to say about that. And also, he'd like to go back to cuddly werewolves with control issues please and thank you. Stiles dropped hunting and returned to his druid studies and werewolf counseling. He still got the occasional call for assistance, or to take care of a hunt because there was no one else in the area, but as well as he could, he stayed the Hell away. Someone else could solve the apocalypse, because that was so not his issue.

* * *

"Hey, Dad."

 _"Hey, son."_

"The world might be ending in fire and brimstone soon, so now is the time to sell all your possession and go to Vegas. Or ask out that girl you're eying. Or have all the curly fries you want."

 _"... what?"_

"The end is nigh, Dad."

 _"You started the apocalypse?"_

"What? No! It wasn't me!"

"If not you..."

"Remember the two brothers I met in Omaha?"

 _"It was them?"_

"Yeah, demons are running amuck. I'm gonna send you a bunch of protective stuff actual. Amulets and sigils and a pamphlet and everything."

 _"Mitch, I refuse to paint Satanic symbols around my house. I'm the Sheriff of this town."_

"They're not Satanic! They're, like, King Solomon and stuff. The good guys."

 _"That won't make them look less Satanic."_

"I have faith in your ability to be subtle, Dad."

* * *

Noah hadn't been sure if Mitch was serious about the apocalypse. He still wasn't sure. But when Mitch had emailed him a bunch of protection sigils and procedures for protecting himself and the house, Noah figured he was at least serious about the demons running amuck bit. Obviously, that fight hadn't made it to Beacon Hills, since Mitch wasn't warning him against certain people or running back to Beacon Hills to exorcise demons. But he supposed precautions couldn't hurt.

Noah implemented the devil's traps and the protective sigils, painting them under rugs and behind paintings. He and Stiles never redecorated or rearranged anything. Everything had stayed the same since Claudia, and Noah didn't expect that to be changing anytime soon.

* * *

"Hey, Dad."

 _"Hey, son."_

"You'll never believe this: I have a reputation."

 _"A reputation that proceeds you, I'm guessing?"_

"Yeah, and it's a reputation of being slightly badass. Can you believe that?"

 _"It's hard to."_

"Well, you better believe it now, because it's true. I'm a badass hunter, a badass werewolf counselor, and a badass druid."

 _"Just as long as you don't dress in black and wear a leather jacket with the collar turned up."_

"I would never dress in all black."

 _"Because you're an actual rainbow?"_

"No, because Lydia would murder me. I won't turn up my collar either, but I make no promises regarding a leather jacket."

* * *

Noah was out of Beacon Hills on business, so he strong-armed Mitch into coming to see him. It'd been a while, and he wanted to see for himself that his older son was doing alright. Back home, 14-year-old Stiles was becoming more gangly than ever and upping the ante when it came to getting himself and poor, asthmatic Scott into trouble. Here in Sacramento, 24-year-old Mitch looked worlds better than he had 3 years ago at Claudia's funeral, but seemed to have perfected the art of getting into trouble.

"Where'd you get that?" Noah asked, motioning to the angry red slash mark peeking out from under the collar of Mitch's flannel shirt.

Mitch eased into the booth across from him. "Rougarou in Portland."

"Sounds nasty," Noah commented, eying the way Mitch moved for any stiffness. He seemed fine. Better than fine, actually. His thin lanky form and filled out into a lean, muscled one that were no doubt the result of hunting and werewolf wrangling. "How are you doing these days?"

"Better," Mitch replied, and Noah could hear the honesty in his voice. "I've been sleeping more. Eating more too, so prepare to pay for a big meal."

"Good," Noah said, smiling at the waitress who glided over to their table. The two of them ordered, and thanked her as she promised to return with their coffee. "Farwell given you any trouble?"

"Not since Wichita." Mitch leaned comfortably against the back of the booth. "Been pretty busy, been moving around a lot. So I can't imagine I'm an easy man to find at this point, but I haven't heard anything, so I'm not worrying about him."

Noah smiled. "Because you're a badass hunter."

"Exactly." Mitch matched his grin, flashing it at the waitress when she brought them their coffee.

The waitress matched his grin, and Noah chuckled. "A womanizer too now?"

"Never!" Mitch said, faking an affronted expression.

"Hiding your leather jacket in the car?" Noah teased. "Turned down your collar before you came in, did you?"

Mitch laughed. "No, of course not. I made you a promise. I'm a real badass, not a wannabe."

Pleased with Mitch's easy laughter, Noah smiled wider at his son and took a sip of his coffee. "I actually have something for you."

"What is it?" Mitch asked with a curious tilt of his head.

"Well, as a badass hunter who is not a wannabe, I thought you should have a non-leather jacket," Noah said, picking up the pile of army green fabric on the booth beside him. He passed the jacket across the table to Mitch. "It was my dad's."

Mitch met his eyes with his own wide, surprised ones. He didn't seem to know what to say, so he just pushed his coffee aside and unfolded the jacket.

"I don't know how much you know about him," Noah said, wrapping his hands around his mug to keep himself from fidgeting. "I hardly knew the man. He wasn't really around, and he was diagnosed with dementia several years back. We were never close, but, uh... well, he was in the army and that was his jacket. His buddies got that for him as a sort of joke, with his nickname on the pocket instead of his surname and rank."

Noah paused and waited for Mitch's eyes to catch the stitching above the left breast pocket. He could tell the moment they did, Mitch's fingers coming up to trace the name. "He went by Stiles too," Noah said softly. "And I know you don't go by Stiles anymore—can't anymore. But I thought Dad's jacket could... I don't know."

Mitch smiled up at him, eyes sad and happy at the same time. "Thanks, Dad."

Noah returned the smile. "Well, try it on. The sentiment's no good if you don't look badass in it."

Mitch laughed and shrugged the jacket on. Noah had been pretty sure it would fit. Mitch had the same build as his grandfather.

"It looks good on you," Noah complimented.

"Thank you," Mitch said, fingers coming up again to the simple black letters spelling out STILES. "Really, it means a lot."

Noah might have been imagining it, but he thought that heavy weight on Mitch's shoulders had been lessened a little bit.

* * *

"Hey, Dad."

 _"Hey, son."_

"Farwell's showed up again. Sucking up to the big guys, like he always has."

 _"Are you alright?"_

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I've resolved to not let him shoot me again."

 _"But if he has back-up..."_

"I'm being extra careful, Dad, I promise. And now that I know he's out there trying to cause trouble, I'll be ready for him."

 _"Alright, but you haven't been making friends the past 3 years for nothing. If you need help, ask for it."_

"You betcha. He might have been making friends in high places, but I've got friends in all places."

 _"Good. Use them."_

"Will do. Hey, did you know I've been to all 48 contiguous states now?"

"Well, considering you've decided to become a vagabond, it's hardly surprising."

 _"Well, I think it's cool."_

"Sorry, son, of course it's cool."

* * *

Farwell was slightly more dangerous than Stiles had given him credit for. He'd failed to consider just how high you could find friends when you had some knowledge of the future. Because apparently, the Grimm brothers had become a great big hunting family, and then renamed themselves Kugel when their old tales became a bit too popular. And also, Farwell had gotten in with the most corrupt members of the Kugel family and labeled Mitch Stilinski an enemy. It was very annoying, but the Kugels weren't terribly well liked in the first place, so their dislike of him only earned him respect and positive feelings from the rest of the hunting community. Coming across any of Kugel's hunters was a pain. They either told him to get lost, sometimes with physical emphasis, or outright attacked him.

Stiles never had any serious trouble or injury from them, though, so he didn't worry himself or his dad over it

* * *

"Hey, Dad."

 _"Hey, son."_

"How do you feel about faeries?"

 _"Tinkerbell?"_

"Slightly evil Tinkerbell."

 _"Slightly evil Tinkerbell is real?"_

"Yeah, sorta. They're really clever and like to cause trouble. And those are the nice ones."

 _"They sound like the kind of creature that's going to cause you pain and me worry."_

"Hey, I'm studiously avoiding."

 _"Studiously?"_

"Yeah, like, I'm studying them and preparing for a completely hypothetical situation in which I might come into contact with them so as to limit the amount of pain caused to myself and worry caused to you."

 _"Just don't end up in the hospital, Mitch."_

* * *

Stiles didn't end up the hospital. Instead, he ended up back in McGlinty's bookshop in Chattanooga, glaring at the old man as he chuckled.

"You really ought to find the humor in this situation, Mr. Stilinski," McGlinty said, chortling and flipping through the pages of an old tome. "As far as tricks go, the one played was relatively minor."

Stiles glared as hard as he could, trying to convey how not minor this felt without speaking.

"I, for one, find it immensely amusing to hear you speak," McGlinty said.

"Darstab ing'k'uf aryu," Stiles snarled. "See'air'b'aireld fo telms rethom oryu."

McGlinty laughed. "Despite the fact that I'm sure you're insulting me and my parentage. But you have to admit it's fascinating to listen to someone speaking backwards. And it's immensely entertaining to watch you walk backwards."

"Kuf uya," Stiles mumbled, slumping in his chair and trying not to dissolve into childish sulking. The drive from Spokane to Chattanooga had been nothing short of torture. You'd think that in all the years Stiles had met gallivanting across the country, he'd have met more than a few faerie experts, one of which lived closer than the other side of the country. But no. McGlinty was the man to go to for fixing faerie curses.

"There there, Mr. Stilinski," McGlinty comforted. "I'll have this figured out in just a moment. You'll be back to doing everything forwards in no time."

Stiles felt like McGlinty would be slightly disappointed when that happened, so he devolved into childish sulking.

* * *

"Hey, Dad."

 _"Hey, son."_

"I think I've found my true calling."

 _"Stamp collecting?"_

"Again, with the comedian thing. No, actually, I think I'm gonna be a werewolf pack chef. I can do catering. Full moon meetings. Pack summits. Whatever you need, I'm fully capable of feeding a shit ton of werewolves all by myself."

 _"Sounds like a lot of cooking."_

"Yeah, but I can do it."

 _"Werewolf catering."_

"Yeah."

 _"Need a business partner?"_

"Absolutely. We'll call it Stilinski & Son: Hungry Like a Wolf Catering."

 _"I'm in."_

* * *

"Your hair's getting long," Noah commented, sliding up onto the tailgate next to his son.

"I cut it a few weeks ago," Mitch said, offering Noah a beer.

Noah took it. "It's still a lot longer than last time I saw you."

"I was told it made me look handsome," Mitch admitted, resting his elbows on his knees and tapping his fingers on the neck of his beer bottle.

"Pretty waitress?"

"McGlinty."

Noah chuckled and twisted the top off his beer. "Doing okay, son?"

Mitch didn't answer for a long moment before he admitted, "Been better. Farwell's making more trouble. More than I thought he was capable of making. I underestimated him."

"You need back-up?" Noah asked, staring up at the clear, starry, evening sky.

"I've got it, I think," Mitch said. "There's a lot of people out for my blood, but there are more intent on keeping my blood inside my body, so I think I'll be okay. I let people know where I am and when to expect me."

"That's good." Noah took a swig of his beer. "I worry."

Mitch blew a harsh breath through his lips. "Me too, Dad, me too."

They sat in companionable silence for a bit, staring out at the clear night sky. The stars glittered across the dark blue blanket. Low on the horizon, fireworks sparked and fizzled out, too far away to hear. Out here, sitting on the side of a road where you could see for miles and miles in every direction, it was peaceful and silent.

"So," Noah said at last.

"So," Mitch echoed, setting his beer beside him on the tailgate.

"Five years are up," Noah reminded him.

"Yeah, they are," Mitch mused. "Almost time to jump in and save Laura Hale."

Eying his son's tense shoulders, Noah said, "She comes back next month, right?"

Mitch nodded, rubbing a hand over his stubble. "Yeah, she will."

"Are you staying until then?" Noah asked.

Shaking his head, Mitch straightened up and answered, "I think I'll keep moving around a bit, then I'll be back. I won't stay gone too long. Then I'll be home, for better or for worse."

"Let's pray for better," Noah said, clapping a hand on Mitch's shoulder.

"Yes, let's," Mitch agreed. Then he grinned and hopped off the tailgate. "You ready to shoot off some magical fireworks?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Noah said, grinning back and sliding off the gate. "I'm expecting to be impressed."

"Then hold onto your socks," Mitch said, grabbing an armful of fireworks from the truck bed. "Because this is gonna be wild."


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles had never broken a bone before.

It was weird, considering how his poor, fragile human body had been abused over the years, but it was true. He'd been beaten, bruised, stabbed, shot, and concussed, but never once had he broken a bone.

 _Guess I can add that to the list now,_ he thought, a little delirious. He curled on the ground feeling hot and cold at the same time, his body trembling and racked with a cold sweat.

Muffled voices, that sounded distant but were undoubtedly only a few feet away echoed in Stiles' ears, but he couldn't focus on them. He was just trying to breathe without puking his guts out. His fingers scrapped into the dirt. If he could just block out the blinding pain radiating from his leg, then he could figure how the hell he was going to get out of this one. But the pain was debilitating, because the bone in his damn leg was snapped in two. Judging by the sticky wetness, either the blow had broken the skin, or the bone had snapped and was poking out of the skin. Stiles really hoped it was the former, but didn't have the strength to look. Besides, if it was the latter, he was definitely going to lose the battle with his stomach.

Then hands were grabbing his arms and dragging him up. The movements jostled his broken leg hard, and a heavy throbbing against his skull reminded him that his head had been smashed into the concrete. Then he passed out.

* * *

Stiles woke up in an honest to God dungeon with bars and cells and medieval lighting. It was ridiculous. First, though, his leg. Stiles looked over at the leg and found that whoever his abductors were, they had been thoughtful enough to get his leg at least semi-professionally looked at. If the bone had pierced the skin, it wasn't anymore, and his lower leg was swathed in bandages up to his knee where his jeans had been sawed off.

He pushed his protesting body into a sitting position with a grunt and looked around for signs of life. He didn't see anyone or anything. He looked down at his watch, which was miraculously still intact despite the beating he'd taken (thank God for military grade equipment). His stomach twisted. Laura Hale would be returning to Beacon Hills in less than 3 days, and for all he knew, he could be on the other side of the continent. He didn't have time for this.

"Hey!" Stiles shouted, voice hoarse and cracking. "If you could send someone in with an evil monologue and promise of my future pain and death, that'd be great!"

He wasn't sure if anyone heard him, so he just hurled sarcasm and insult at the door while he took stock of his body's situation—which was, of course, very not good. A few minutes in, the door swung open and two people with permanent frowns entered, Farwell on their heels.

Stiles rolled his eyes. Of course. "Well, that explains a few things."

"Mitch Stilinski," the man in the lead said, approaching the bars to Stiles' cell. Thankfully the villainous 'so, we meet at last' went unsaid.

"Harold Kugel," Stiles guessed. "And Harold Kugel's right hand, whatever your name is."

The woman crossed her toned arms across her chest and leveled an unimpressed look Stiles' way.

"I'm guessing you guys don't subscribe to the matriarchal thing like the Argents and the Calaveras," Stiles said, leaning back on his hands and doing his best to look casual. "You might try it. Could fix a few things."

"I'm afraid we aren't here to discuss my family's structure," Kugel said with a vaguely amused but definitely smug smile. "We're here to talk about you."

"I gotta be honest, Harry," Stiles said, just to be irritating. "I'd expected my old friend Farwell here to want me dead, not alive."

"Well then, in the spirit of honesty, Mieczysław," Kugel countered, and wow, bringing out the big guns because that was flawless pronunciation, "Farwell does want you dead. I'm the one who wants you alive."

"Alive for what?" Stiles asked. "Come to torture me, Harry? I don't really have anything of value for you, unless you just get off on that sort of thing."

Kugel produced a key from his pocket. "Don't sell yourself short, Mieczysław," he said, opening the cell door and letting it swing open invitingly—a perfect escape for somebody with two working legs, but a mockery to somebody without. "You have plenty of value."

"What exactly could I have that the head of a big old hunting family would want?" Stiles kept his posture as relaxed as he could, but it was hard to when Kugel crouched down right next to him.

Kugel placed his hand on Stiles' broken leg, not pressing, just threatening. "We are aware of Farwell's circumstances and history. He's been able to provide us with some... lucrative and advantageous knowledge. We are also aware that you share similar circumstances."

Stiles immediately began mentally cursing himself out for not realizing that the Kugel family's recent power surge had something to do with the foreknowledge Farwell possessed. Kugel's heavy hand began to close around Stiles' shin, and he gritted his teeth to brace against the discomfort.

"It'd be in your interest to share the details of your history with us," Kugel continued, his voice mild and pleasant in stark contrast to his dark gaze.

Stiles clenched his hands into fists and replied, "I don't really have any useful foreknowledge for you. Wasn't really on the scene, you know? I mean, I can tell you about the movies coming out in the next five years, and I can tell you which Mets games to bet on. I could tell you who wins the Super bowl. Could probably make some money off those bets, if that's your cup of tea. Or I could regale you with my high school years. Chemistry was a bitch, Mr. Harris hated me. But there was Lydia and she—" His ramblings cut off into a strangled cry of pain when Kugel dug his fingers into Stiles' leg.

"You'll have to do better than that, Mieczysław," Kugel said, smiling at him. "Because Farwell has told me quite a bit about the boy who ran with the wolves. Friends with a True Alpha, a kitsune, a banshee, two weres with a full shift, and that's just the short list."

"Unbelievable, right?" Stiles said, screwing his eyes shut. "Might wanna check your facts. Farwell might not have been as in the know as he thought."

"Precisely what I'm trying to accomplish here," Kugel said. "That's what this meet up was for."

"Ah, well, then," Stiles grunted. "You should know that everything that comes out of Farwell's mouth is shit, Harry. Never met a True Alpha or a banshee or a kitsune. Aren't those Japanese?"

"Funny," Kugel said. "I can see we will have to convince you to talk."

"Oh no, I'll talk all you want." Stiles sat up a little more, doing his best to exude confidence and nonchalance. "I've got no problems with that. Wanna hear about the time my buddy Scott and I went looking for a dead body?"

Kugel stood. "I'm sure we can come to understanding soon, Mieczysław. In the meantime, Ida, Farwell, he's all yours."

* * *

Stiles thanked every star and deity he could think of that they had overlooked the fact that Stiles was now a druid of not-inconsiderable learning and prowess. He probably had to thank his stint as a full-time hunter and the subsequent sidelining of his druid power for that too. He did so as he limped out of the Kugel family fortress, a cloaking and misdirecting spell sitting heavy on his shoulders as he picked a dozen locks and slipped by a dozen Kugel hunters. He had to use the wall as a crutch, because his bad leg kept giving out underneath him. Breaking bones sucked.

But he made it, because Farwell and the Kugels had underestimated him, and Stiles thrived on being underestimated. On the other hand, he had gotten caught because he'd underestimated Farwell and the Kugels. He doubted either side would be forgetting that next time they came to head, so that was going to be intense, but Stiles planned on being prepared for it. Right after he saved Laura Hale from being cut in half by her deranged uncle.  
He staggered toward what he hoped was the parking lot and almost cried when he saw his truck parked outside the garage doors. He stumbled toward his partner in crime of the last 5 years, ending up on his hands and one knee more than a few times. His progress was slow, but he was confident in his masking skills and the Kugels' current obliviousness. From what Farwell knew, Stiles was nowhere near capable of this, so Stiles was pretty sure no one would be looking for him and no one would be prepared for this escape. But still, a huge knot in his stomach released when he reached the door of his truck, trembling fingers grasping the door handle and slipping inside. Stiles sank into the driver's seat and released his cloaking spell for a moment. His hand automatically reached for the ignition, but the keys weren't there. That was okay, Stiles was nothing if not a paranoid bastard. Always have a contingency plan was practically his creed.

Stiles rubbed his fingertips together, feeling his overextended spark pull to the surface. He directed it into his truck and blanketed the vehicle with a well-practiced silencing spell. The engine hummed to life soundlessly beneath him. Taking a deep breath, Stiles opened the glove compartment for his emergency stash of Vicodin and Adderall. He tried to avoid taking them if he could, but this was definitely an emergency of his level, so he dry-swallowed the pills, shook off what weariness he could, and redid his cloaking spell. He just had to hold it until he was a couple miles out.

* * *

He was in Wisconsin. Shit. Stiles stared at the sign that announced Chism Auto Salvage and wondered how he was going to make it to Beacon Hills before tomorrow night. He barely had 48 hours, and even though he'd been to Wisconsin before, it was one of the few states he didn't have a lot of contacts in. Certainly not any he was comfortable calling up when he was in such a vulnerable state. In fact, as far as people he was willing to trust his life to right now, none of them were within a two-state radius.

"Fuck," Stiles whispered, head resting against the steering wheel. One of his back-up burners rested heavy in his hands. He needed to call someone. He wouldn't make it to California by himself while he was in this condition. He was going to have to reach out. Call up someone that was probably a decent human being and hope they wouldn't screw him over.

Sluggishly blinking against the need to pass out, Stiles reached under the seat and pulled out a worn journal. He opened it to the back and found the number he was looking for. With clumsy fingers, Stiles put the number in and the held the phone up to his ear, allowing his eyes to slip closed again.

After a few rings a gruff voice answered. _"Singer Salvage."_

Stiles' chest seized as he wondered if this was good idea. It might not be, but it was the best one he had. He was just so damn tired.

 _"Hello?"_

Stiles forced himself to sit up. Ignoring his body screaming in pain, Stiles managed to reply. "Hey, uh, I don't know if you remember me. It's, uh, it's Mitch Stilinski."

 _"Yeah, I remember you,"_ the gruff voice responded. _"You hunted with the boys for a while a few years back. You alright, boy?"_

Stiles smiled a real smile at the grumpy concern in the older man's voice—he was good people, and Stiles would trust him with his current condition, but he was a little far away to be an option. "In a bit of trouble," Stiles told him. "Could use some back up. Was hoping you knew someone in the area I could trust to help me out."

 _"You in a bad way?"_

Stiles hummed a little in response. Words took a lot of effort.

 _"Where are you?"_

"Wisconsin," Stiles said, placed a steadying hand on the door handle. "Just outside a place called Chism Auto Salvage."

 _"Alright, Mitch, here's what you're gonna do."_

Stiles blinked and tried to focus on the commanding voice.

 _"I know Chism. You head there, and stay there. I'll give him a call. I'm sending the boys. They'll be there in a few hours."_

Stiles didn't have the strength to argue with that. He hardly had the strength to say anything all.

 _"Mitch? Mitch, you hear me?"_

"I—" Stiles took a deep breath and focused on his steering wheel and his dashboard and his door handle. He was not going to pass out. He wasn't. He refused to pass out. "Yeah, I... hear you."

 _"Shit, you're really out of it. Stay put son. Chism will come to you. The boys will be there soon."_

"Okay," Stiles whispered into the phone and then slumped forward. He thanked God for people like Singer, and then decided that not passing out was way too much effort.

* * *

Chism cursed Singer for waking him up in the middle of the night. He cursed the fact that he knew him at all. He cursed the hunting career that had left him with an injured, battered old body. He generally just cursed up a storm as he trudged out into the dark and started his tow truck, looking for the baby blue pickup Singer had promised him was parked on the side of the road somewhere close by. He found it easily since the truck was still running and the lights were shining brightly into the woods. Pulling up in front of it, Chism climbed down from his tow truck and headed over to the idling vehicle.

When he opened the cab, he stopped cursing Singer and started cursing whoever had beat this poor kid within an inch of his life. Chism reached in and lightly jostled the young man's shoulder. "Hey, kid, you still alive?"

The kid shifted, groaned, and blinked hazy, vacant hazel eyes at him. He was still alive, obviously, but at this point not aware.

"Come on, let's get you out of there, kid," Chism said. It was difficult, getting the young man out of his truck, especially once Chism realized the kid's leg was broken and poorly bandaged. But Chism managed to manhandle the kid out and into his tow truck. From there, he made quick work of hooking up the blue truck and towing it back to his salvage yard. He left it hooked up and got the kid inside.

It'd been a while since Chism had hunted and longer since he'd dealt with injury of this kind, but even when you quit the hunting life, you never really left it behind. So Chism dug out some supplies and started cleaning the kid up. He'd clearly had the shit beaten out of him by people who knew what they were doing, and not just the monster of the week.

"Kids these days," Chism grumbled to the young man passed out on his couch.

Chism didn't bother going back to bed after he'd finished tending to the kid. Just stayed up and finished some paperwork that needed doing while he kept one eye on the kid. The boy didn't so much as twitch. He looked so dead to the world Chism had to check several times that he was still breathing.  
A few hours later, still obscenely early in the morning and way before the sun was up, the two brothers arrived. Against Chism's advice, they woke the kid to make sure that no one was on his tail or dying. If the younger one hadn't been so logical about it, Chism would've booted them out the door. But the younger one had been logical, so Chism let the older one coax the kid awake and attempt to question him.

Chism watched with heavy exasperation as the kid woke, proclaimed his friends in mortal danger, started rambling about werewolves, and badgered the two brothers into driving him 30 hours ("I can make it in 25.") to Beacon Hills, California. Shaking his head, Chism helped the brothers bundle the kid into their black impala, shoved a handful of meds into the younger brother's hands (he seemed like the more responsible one) and sent them off, promising to take care of the kid's truck until he could come back for it.

"Crazy kids," Chism muttered as the impala disappeared in a cloud of dust. "Too old for this shit."

He lumbered back inside and resolved to take care of the tow and the truck after he'd gotten some sleep. Singer might be able to pretend he was still young, but Chism's old body needed its rest. He glanced back just before he closed the door behind him. He hoped everything turned out okay for that kid.

"Gettin' soft, old man."

* * *

As hard as it would've been to explain, Stiles wished the brothers could've stayed and helped him. But they were dealing with some heavy shit (like, apocalypse heavy), so Stiles accepted the burner phone, promised that his dad lived here, and he was going to call him immediately, and got them to drop him off outside the preserve. He thanked them profusely, assured them they didn't have to worry about him now, and sent them off.

He'd slept the entire way from Wisconsin to Beacon Hills, so while he still felt like shit, he'd just slept for over a day and taken a boatload of pain killers and a handful of Adderall. He could do this. Probably. Stiles looked up at the darkening evening sky with trepidation and turned to head into the preserve, dialing his father's number as he went.

The phone dialed and then rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

"Come on, Dad, pick up," Stiles growled into the phone, grabbing a sturdy stick from the ground to act as a crutch and hobbling further into the preserve.

It rang a few more times, and then Stiles was greeted with the voice-mail message.

"Shit," Stiles said, still stumbling forward. He dialed again, desperately hoping his dad would pick up. He got the voice-mail again. Frustrated, Stiles tried one more time, and almost cried with relief when his dad picked up the phone after the fourth ring.

 _"Hello?"_ came his groggy answer to the ring.

"Dad," Stiles said, choking on his relief.

 _"Mitch?! Oh thank God, you're okay. Are you okay? I thought you'd be here days ago."_

"Well, I'm back now," Stiles said hoarsely into the phone. It was so good just to hear his dad's voice at this point. "I'm in the preserve already. Tonight's the night. I could really use some back-up."

 _"What kind of back-up are we talking?"_

"Call in everyone you can and tell them you got an anonymous tip and get all of them out here kind of back-up," Stiles responded. "I'll take whatever I can get. Pretty sure I'll need it. My plans have been all thrown out of the window at this point."

 _"I'll be there as soon as I can,"_ his dad promised. _"Be safe."_

"Do my best," Stiles promised in return. "See you soon."

His dad hung up, and Stiles stuffed the phone into his pocket. His spark was somewhat recovered, more so than his body, so at least he had that to work with. Infinitely familiar with these woods, Stiles reached out with his spark and his senses, searching for any disturbance, any indicator of Laura or Peter and following it.

Before he knew it, he heard (felt) footsteps, cautious but confident as they walked through the Preserve.

"Shit," Stiles whispered. This was happening too fast. He'd barely gotten here in time. Maybe he hadn't gotten here in time at all. What if he was too late? He sped up as much as he could, ignoring the jarring impact every time his broken leg hit the ground. He just needed to get there in time. Stiles stumbled, staggered, and pushed himself forward, following those sure footsteps.

He got there just in time to hear her gasp, "Peter?" and see blood spurt from her throat.

"NO!" Stiles screamed, sending his spark out in a wild burst of energy that sent the deranged wolf flying backwards. Stiles crashed down next to Laura Hale, hands pressing against her torn throat. "Nononononono, this wasn't supposed to happen, I was supposed to fix it." Stiles desperately reached deep into himself, deep into his spark, deep into the world around him, searching for the means to save her. Maybe he found it, maybe he didn't, but he latched onto something. Whatever it was, he pulled and poured it into the bursting wound on Laura's neck. Both hands pressed against the slash, Stiles believed and begged and pushed and pulled. He had to heal her. Her brain had 7 minutes left to live and Stiles would be damned if he didn't do everything in his power to bring her back.

His vision grayed and tunneled. He slumped forward, exhausted and depleted. He'd failed.

* * *

Stiles was in and out of it, delusional and seeing weird things like fae and sparkles and weird magic and a living Laura Hale for the next few days. When he finally woke up fully enough to see that his delusions weren't all that delusional, Stiles almost called it quits right there. No more magic. No more werewolves. No more hunting. No more druids or faeries or weird ass dreams and not-dreams.

But then Laura Hale was crowding his vision, looking relieved and alive with a thick scar across her throat. "Thank God you're awake. You can explain to me what the hell is going on."

Stiles blinked and tried to understand what he was seeing. It took a huge effort, but he managed to prop himself up on his elbows, trying not to wince. "Uh, what the hell is going on?"

Laura slumped. "This is so unfair. I wanted someone to tell me I hadn't been kidnapped by faeries. I mean, I suppose the alternative would be that this is heaven, which is equally terrifying, so you take what you can get, I guess."

"... what?" Stiles tried to process what she was saying, but it was hard. "We've been kidnapped by faeries?"

"Well, we're in the fae world, I'm pretty sure," Laura responded. "But I have no idea why or what the fae want. Pretty sure you're the important one because they keep coming to check if you're awake, but for some reason I've been lumped in with you and I'd really like to know why."

Stiles closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to get his bearings. "Okay," he said, pushing himself up more. "Okay, I'm okay, I can figure this out."  
"I sure as hell hope so."

Stiles growled and glared at her. "Please shut up for a minute."

"Cute," Laura snorted at him. "I haven't had anyone to talk to for days, I think, so no, I'm not gonna shut up. You're probably the reason I'm here."

"I'm the reason you're alive, you asshole," Stiles muttered.

"What?!"

"Just shut the hell up for a minute," Stiles grumbled, feeling a pounding headache building in his head. He needed to get a handle on this situation, but he hurt everywhere. His leg was throbbing, his head was pulsing, and every muscle he had was on fire. And apparently he'd stepped into the faerie realm, which just spelled trouble with a capital T, especially considering the last time he'd encountered the fae.

"Been a minute," Laura announced. Then her hands were on his back, helping him sit up more and shoving him towards the side of the bed.

"Woah! Shit! Stop!" Stiles yelped, eyes snapping open (which he immediately regretted).

"Come on, stranger," Laura groaned as she stopped pushing. "It's been days and none of them will say anything to me and I'm going out of my mind."

"Days?" Stiles echoed weekly, tentatively turning to look at her. She was like a feminine version of Derek with a naturally highlighted hair and thinner eyebrows.

"Days," Laura confirmed. She sat back, apparently satisfied that she'd gotten his attention.

"Shit," he growled, he gingerly shifted his legs over the side of the woven mattress.

"You've been pretty out of it," Laura told him. "Looked like you needed the rest."

"I'll sleep when I'm dead," he mumbled out automatically, carefully stretching out his leg and wincing. It'd been sort of taken care of medically, but it definitely needed something more. Probably something professional involving pins or casts.

"Well, you looked like you would be dead if you didn't sleep so," Laura responded.

 _.::awake::._

Stiles and Laura both jolted at the strangely musical sound reverberating through their heads. A thin wisp of a creature hovered in the entryway to their tent au naturale, radiating a soft glow and a strange aura of otherworldly curiosity. It was almost innocent, the way it's vaguely humanoid shape tilted its head and its soft trill echoed through their minds. Stiles knew from experience that it wasn't so innocent. More like obliviously cruel.

"What is it?" Laura asked, openly gaping at the creature.

"It's fae," Stiles said, straightening as much as he could to face the creature. "Yes, I'm awake. Who are you?"

 _.::I am fae::._

"That's what you are," Stiles corrected. "What do I call you?"

The trilling in his mind seemed to take a vaguely irritated turn. Or maybe it was just wary. Stiles wasn't sure, but he didn't think the fae was happy with the question. Oh well, it had been worth a shot.

"Okay, what do you want then?" Stiles asked.

 _.::I want for nothing::._

"That's helpful," Laura grumbled.

The fae didn't take any notice of her. Stiles couldn't imagine why he was more important to them than an alpha werewolf, but that wasn't his main concern. "Alright, why are we here?"

 _.::you called to us::._

Stiles frowned. "What? Called to you? Pretty sure I didn't. Definitely not on purpose."

 _.::you called to us and reached out to us::._

Mind combing over the last things he could remember Stiles templed his fingers and regarded the fae creature. "Do you mean when I was healing her?" he questioned tentatively.

He could've been imagining it, but the presence of the fae brushing against his mind seemed to react positively to that inquiry.

 _.::you reached out to us and we reached out to you::._

"Okay, I think I follow what you're saying," Stiles said.

 _.::we gave to you and then we took you::._

"Whoa, whoa, took us?" Laura exclaimed.

 _.::we gave and we took::._

"I think it's saying it gave me the boost I needed to save you," Stiles explained slowly. "And then took their payment for that, which was us."

"They helped you save my life just so they could take both are lives!" Laura growled, fangs showing, and Stiles was momentarily distracted by the gold sheen of her eyes. She was no longer an alpha, which meant Peter was. He was going to have to deal with that, among other things, very soon.

 _.::you belong here now::._

"I don't think so, Tinkerbell," Laura snarled. Claws now too. Fantastic.

Stiles latched onto her arm to keep her from doing anything stupid, but then the fae was retreating.

"Wait!" Stiles called. "At least tell us where we are!"

 _.::the Mag Mell, ealdlic sáwol::._

The fae's presence retreating, taking its musical aura with it. Stiles slumped against Laura. "Well damn."

"Wanna tell me what the Mag Mell is?" Laura asked.

Stiles eyes were sliding shut, but he could hear her arching an eyebrow at him.

"Fae realm, but that's not the really terrible part," Stiles groaned.

"Alright, do you have some good news to go with your bad news?" Laura asked. "Because I don't do negative friends."

"I'm a ball of negativity and paranoia," Stiles said honestly. "So I guess we can't be friends."

"I don't even know your name yet, but I'm pretty sure you know mine," Laura responded.

"Yeah," Stiles mumbled. "I'm Mitch Stilinski."

"You knew about Peter." Laura didn't seem to be asking him a question, just throwing that fact out there to see what'd he say about it.

Stiles shrugged and said, "Yeah. I planned to warn you about him ahead of time, but shit happened, and the damn Kugels broke my leg and I had to escape and catch a ride from Wisconsin, which was not fun, and now I'm stuck in Mag Mell. At least you're alive."

"Significant upside," Laura agreed. "Alright, hit me with the bad news. Aside from having no idea how we're gonna get out of here, what's the bad part about being in Mag Mell?"

"Fae realms are in, like, an entirely different dimension," Stiles explained, still leaning against Laura because she hadn't pushed him away and he was pretty sure he was leeching away his pain with her werewolf mojo, which he was totally okay with at this point. "Everything's different. Time passes differently here. We could spend a day here and end up a decade in the future when we end up back in our real world. One dude toured a dwarf kingdom underground and when he came back up 3 centuries had passed."

There was a moment's pause as Laura absorbed that information. Then: "What?!" she squeaked.

"Yeah," Stiles sighed.

"We need to get out of here now then!" Laura urged. "Come on lazy. We've already been here too long."

Stiles agreed with her, but couldn't help but protest as she manhandled him off the bed. It was a lot less painful than it could've been, but Stiles was still cursing the Kugels and Farwell and their collective parentage repeatedly in his head.

"Can you walk?" Laura demanded as she steadied him.

"Not by myself," Stiles admitted, putting all his weight on his good leg and Laura.

"Alright, I'll carry you," Laura decided.

"Wait!" Stiles squawked, but Laura was already throwing him over her shoulder and striding out of their little tent-den. "Ugh, fine. Go for it. You know what you're looking for?"

"I'll know it when I see it," Laura said confidently.

Stiles huffed. "Of course you will."

* * *

Stiles couldn't begin to guess how long they wandered through Mag Mell, neither knowing where they needed to go and Stiles leaning heavily on Laura for support. It could've been hours, it could've been months. All he knew was that it was far too long. Somewhere along the way, Stiles fed Laura some story about discovering Peter and coming to warn her, which she absolutely did not swallow. But he had a somewhat positive reputation among werewolves, and Laura had heard of him, so she didn't question him,

They stumbled between faerie celebrations, skirting the edges of the revels. Sometimes, they were dragged in and spent indeterminate amounts of time forced into the celebrations. Each time they escaped it took them a little longer to recover from the exhaustion. Time passed in a blur that neither could quite comprehend. They were losing themselves to this fae world, and the worst part was they knew it.

Stiles wasn't sure how it was possible to be aware that you're losing your mind this way. He felt detached. His mind watched his body falter and stumble through Mag Mell without direction. He saw himself fall and get back up. He saw the fae manipulate them time and time again into joining their revels. He watched himself fall for their machinations over and over again, even though he knew with complete clarity that it was happening, that it was going to happen, and that he could, theoretically, avoid it if his body would just listen to him.

Then there were the riddles. Riddle after puzzle after enigma was presented to them. It forced to the surface sickening memories of the nogitsune, but Stiles answered them all. Laura wasn't so bad at answering them herself, and together they managed to solve each puzzle presented to them. Sometimes the reward was just that they got to live. Sometimes the faerie granted them a "wish" which was always never what they had really wanted. The fae took perverse pleasure in tricking them. It was just what they were.

The only act Stiles and Laura managed to completely refrain from was eating the food. If they took any sustenance offered to them, it would be game over, and they knew that. It seemed to be the only thing they could really hold to in this reality bending realm of illusions and trickery.

Finally, finally, they found their bridge home.

* * *

Stiles can't bring himself to be embarrassed when he's spit out of the fae realm, stumbles to his knees, and pukes his guts out. He heard Laura retching beside him, but she (of course) recovered much quicker than he does. When his stomach at last stopped twisting itself into knots, Stiles sat back, panting and dazed.

"Stilinski," Laura prompted.

Stiles hummed a little in response, slumping back and wondering if he could just pass out for a few days.

"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," Laura said, her tone dry but her voice tired.

Stiles released a gust of air and groaned. "Aw, hell." He let himself drop back onto the ground, but it was no use. With Laura's words, awareness was slowly filtering in. The air was hot and sticky. The buzz of insects and wildlife pressed in on all sides. Stiles peeked one eye open and tilted to look behind him. As he suspected, a huge tree twisted high into the sky behind them. "Of course we are."

"Of course we are what?" Laura demanded, her voice colored with worry.

"That's a nemeton," Stiles explained. "This is Brazil."

"You're kidding."

"I'm really, really not."

"Brazil? Really?"

"I've never been to Brazil."

"I have."

"Good, then you can be in charge."

"Get off your ass then, Stilinski."

"I take it back."

"NOW."

* * *

Laura's keen sense of direction coupled with Stiles' exhausted but mostly effective druidry got them to civilization. From there, Laura found them a place to crash with the local werewolf pack. They slept for two days. Laura recovered far better than Stiles did, but he judged himself well enough to keep up with her after another day. He didn't want to leave it any longer than that.

Then, at the most inconvenient moment, Stiles remembered Cora Hale. They should probably get her before any alpha packs got any ideas. Depending on how long they'd been away, she could already be on her way to walking into a trap. So Stiles told Laura, without bothering to construct a cover story she wouldn't believe.

They split. Laura was going to find Cora. Stiles was going to recover and plan and maybe start making his way back to Beacon Hills. Because they'd been gone 8 months. It was far better than Stiles could've hoped. He honestly wouldn't have been surprised if they'd come back and years had passed. Stiles spent another two days resting and planning. He and Laura were completely cut off from everything they needed to even book a flight back to California. He wasn't keen on hitchhiking either. So he found the nearest local druid and announced bullied her into helping him create a portal.

By the time Stiles had everything set up, Laura had returned with Cora in tow, having found her more easily than expected.

Stiles grinned at them and told them they were heading back to the US via magic portal. Laura grimaced but resigned herself to it. Cora immediately and naively agreed. The portal linked to the wealth of personal items sitting in Stiles' truck and dumped them out into the cool spring evening. Stiles and Laura managed not to empty their stomachs despite the heavily unsettled feeling. Cora vomited everything in her stomach.

"Okay?" Laura asked, sympathetically patting Cora's shoulder.

Cora shot Stiles a glare.

Stiles gave her an amused shrug and turned to the house. He didn't remember much of Mr. Chism, the man who had patched him up and then kept ahold of his truck while he was driven back to Beacon Hills, but he figured he should pop in and let him know what was going on.

"Where are we now, Magic Man?" Laura questioned.

"Wisconsin," Stiles answered. He headed for the house, the two werewolves on his heels.

"Over shoot the landing?" Cora grumbled.

"Perfect landing, actually."

* * *

Chism regarded the young man before him, limping heavily but looking much better than when he'd seen him last. He had two girls behind him, both equal parts beautiful and terrifying.

"I'd say keep out of trouble," Chism drawled. "But you look like you're about to dive headfirst into it again."

"If I ever get out of trouble in the first place," the kid said with a wry smile, "then I'll consider it."

Chism shook his head. "Well, at least drive safely then. Stop by Marian's Diner on your way. You kids look like you could all use a decent meal."

"Absolutely," the kid said, while the girls nodded their agreement.

"Alright, go on," Chism said, making a shooing motion. "Get out of here. Go save the world. Let me know if you survive."

The young man grinned and shrugged. The girls rolled their eyes. And then they were gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**NOTES: Some lines taken from 2x02, in italics at the beginning and noted with an asterisk midway through last scene**

 _"Matt? It's Matt, right? Matt, whatever's going on, I guarantee you there's a solution that doesn't involve a gun."_

 _"You know, it's funny you say that, because I don't think you're aware of just how right you are."_

 _"I know you don't wanna_ _hurt people."_

 _"Actually, I wanna_ _hurt a lot of people. You three weren't on my list, but I could be persuaded. And one way is to try dialing somebody on your cell phone, like McCall is doing. That could definitely get someone hurt."_

Noah nodded to the two boys, urging them to follow Matt's command and toss their phones onto the desk. It was at that convenient moment that Noah's phone rang. He instinctively reached for it to see the caller ID.

"Don't answer it," Matt ordered, directing his gun at Noah. "Leave it."

"I'm not one to ignore a phone call," Noah said, carefully backing away from the phone as it rang a few more times, then quieted. "Someone will know something is wrong."

"I'm sure it'll be fine for a few hours," Matt said. "Now—"

The phone rang again.

"Sounds urgent," Stiles commented.

Matt glared at him, waving his gun toward Stiles. "Shut up. No one is answering that phone. We're going to the cells and—"

The phone stopped ringing and then, not 2 seconds later, started ringing again.

Noah was pretty sure he knew who it was at this point. Only one person in this world rang him back to back like that. He raised his hands in placating manner and said, "Look, Matt, I'm think I know who's calling, and if I don't answer I can pretty much guarantee that he'll come in here guns blazing."

Matt scoffed. "You're the sheriff, who could you possibly know that would come in guns blazing?"

"Just trust me, he won't bother with any questions," Noah said calmly. "He'll just shoot you."

Matt gripped the gun tightly, clearly trying to decide if Noah was telling the truth.

"Let me answer," Noah said gently. "I'll tell him everything's alright so he doesn't mix himself up in all this. I'll put the phone on speaker, you'll hear everything. If I don't answer, he'll come here as soon as he can."

The phone started ringing a fourth time.

"Fine," Matt said. "But if you say anything suspicious, I'm shooting your son."

Noah nodded, sending Stiles what he hoped was a reassuring smile. His son's brows were knit together in confusion, probably trying to figure out who this was. Taking a deep breath, Noah leaned forward and accepted the call, putting it on speakerphone. "Hello?"

 _"Dad!"_ Mitch's voice came through the speakers, relief clear. _"Are you alright?"_

"I'm fine, son," Noah said, glancing up to see the shock and surprise written across the faces of all three teenagers. "Just stepped out of my office for a bit and didn't hear the phone ringing. Haven't heard from you in a while."

 _"Yeah, sorry about that,"_ Mitch replied. Noah wasn't sure if he bought the lie or not, but he hoped not. _"Sort of got abducted..."_

Noah couldn't help it. He knew that he was supposed to be thinking of a way to warn Mitch without tipping off Matt, but hearing that his son had gotten himself into more trouble sidetracked him. It didn't really surprise him, but he still worried. "Again?! Mitch, one of these days..."

 _"Hey, at least I wasn't bleeding out in an alley this time,"_ Mitch said, good humor coloring his voice.

Noah shook his head. "People who abducted you still alive?"

 _"Yeah, yeah, I didn't kill anyone,"_ Mitch said. _"Don't worry your law abiding morals. Everyone's fine. We're all fine. Are you sure you're fine?"_

"I'm fine," Noah said shortly. "Are you back in Beacon Hills?"

Matt began waving his gun in a wrap-it-up motion, and Noah nodded at him.

 _"Yeah, are you still at the station? I'll meet you there."_

Matt cocked the gun and gave Noah a meaningful glare as he pointed the gun in Stiles' direction.

"You know what, I've got some work to finish up here," Noah said hastily. "Why don't you head to the house? I'll be home in a few hours. You can take the guest room again."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Mitch had never taken the guest room. He'd never even been to the Stilinski house since he'd come back in time. He'd know something was wrong, but he couldn't call him out over the phone, not with Matt pointing his gun at his very human son's head

 _"Are you sure, Dad?"_ Mitch said, he sounded disappointed and not at all suspicious. It made everyone in the room relax a bit. _"I've got someone I really want you to meet."_

Noah frowned, trying to understand what Mitch was getting at. Then he remembered who Mitch had been trying to save before he'd disappeared. "You got the girl?" he asked, hope bolstering his spirits because if he recalled correctly, that girl was a werewolf.

 _"I got the girl,"_ Mitch echoed proudly.

"Can't wait to meet her," Noah said, and then, because the look in Matt's eyes was growing wilder by the second, "But it'll have to wait until the end of my shift. I'll see you at home."

 _"Don't worry about it, Dad,"_ Mitch said breezily. _"We'll see you soon."_

"See you soon," Noah replied, then hastily ended the phone call. He immediately backed away from the phone and raised his hands. "There. See? All fine."

Matt stared a minute, trying to pull himself together. He seemed balanced between desperate and uncertain. "Thought you only had one kid, Sheriff."

"Yeah, Dad," Stiles jumped in, sounding belligerent and rattled at the same time. "Thought you only had one kid."

"The only people who knew were me, him, and the nurse who ran the paternity test," Noah told the three boys, keeping his cool. Mitch would be on his way. He'd been tipped off, and maybe Laura had even heard something over the phone that could help him. "It's a long story."

Stiles opened his mouth to say something about that, but Matt interrupted before he could. "Family spat later. Now move."

* * *

When Stiles pulled up in front of the police station, nothing seemed amiss. He parked as far away as he could but whether or not the building's occupants noticed their arrival was hit or miss. He'd been kicking himself for not remembering what had been happening at this point in the timeline, but his dad's warning, coupled with the three nervous heartbeats Cora heard and the click of a gun Laura made out, painted a pretty clear picture.

"So what's the plan, Mitch?" Laura asked, eyeing the station and trying to discern what was wrong. "I can't hear anything helpful from this far away, so we're going in blind."

Stiles debated telling them what was going on. He didn't have an explanation for how he knew exactly what was happening since he'd been gone for 6 months and Laura had been with him every step of the way. He really needed to get Jackson out of the picture. He had yellow wolfsbane bullets. He could take Jackson down long enough to get him out. If one of the girls helped him get Jackson into his truck, the other could take care of Matt. But their time frame was small. Derek was likely already here, with the Argents close behind. Him and the Hale sisters bursting onto the scene was just asking for a disaster. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for a minute, waffling between choices.

"Well?" Cora cut into his thoughts. "What do we do?"

"My Dad's in there," Stiles said at last. "And something's wrong. That's all I need to go on. We'll just have to be prepared for anything."

"You're not exactly in a position to fight," Laura pointed out, motioning to his leg.

Stiles grimaced at the throbbing limb. Apparently things didn't heal right in Mag Mell. Or maybe time hadn't passed at all for them. Or maybe only a week or two. He didn't know, but Laura was right, his leg was a major problem. "I've got something to help," Stiles said, throwing his door open. "But I'm loading up my gun and hiding behind you two."

"You a good shot?" Cora asked, following him out of the truck.

"I'm a great shot," Stiles said as he limped around to the bed of his truck and grabbed one of the smaller backpacks. He liberated a glock and the clip of yellow wolfsbane bullets. Tossing the pack back into the truck, he rooted around until he found a long wooden staff Baird had forced him to make and keep. Stiles had wanted to infuse druid powers and magic into a wooden baseball bat for ironic purposes, but Baird had put his foot down. For the first time, Stiles was glad he had, because a magic crutch was very useful right now.

"Ready to go, Merlin?" Laura asked with an amused smile.

"Absolutely," Stiles said, leaning his weight onto the staff and letting its minimal but refreshing magic filter in. "Lead on, King Arthur."

Laura snorted and motioned for Cora to shadow her. They approached the station, Stiles limping heavily but managing to keep up with their quick step. They'd made it not 10 steps into the station before Jackson kanima leaped out from the side, tackling Laura to the ground and sending Cora stumbling back into Stiles.

"Don't let its claws cut you!" Stiles shouted, praying the two werewolves were listening to him. "The venom will paralyze you!"

Laura scrambled away from the kanima to get her bearings and Cora immediately attacked. She struck quickly, sending the kanima sliding back before leaping out of range. Hissing spitting, the kanima lunged forward and swiped its claws at her. Cora barely managed to dodge it before Laura leaped onto the kanima and raked her claws down its torso. The only effect that had was pissing the kanima off even more. It threw her off hard enough that she made a dent in the wall.

Stiles didn't have a clean shot, and he didn't want to risk hitting either werewolf, so he shoved his gun into his waistband. Then gripped the staff with both hands and tried to even the odds. The staff, for all its medieval fashion, did its job. As Stiles focused, he felt his tired, drained magic fill up his chest and prickle across his fingertips. Then he reached out and clenched.

The kanima screeched and stumbled as all the venom in its body drained out and swirled into the air above their heads, hovering in a translucent sphere. Cora gave him a wide-eyed look over his shoulder.

"Got the venom," Stiles said shortly.

Cora nodded and turned back to face the pissed kanima as it quickly recovered from its loss. She attacked the front while Laura, healed and back on her feet, attacked from behind. The scramble that followed resulted in Laura staggered back with six long lacerations across her back and shoulder. Cora collapsed with her hands clutching her stomach as blood stained her shredded t-shirt and coated her fingers. The kanima's scales protected it well. With the two werewolves down, it wasted no time in lunging for the third intruder, claws extended.

Stiles jerked the staff in front of himself, willing a shield into place as he pulled the gun out from his under his jacket. The shield was weak and shattered on the impact of Jackson's claws, but it kept him from being sliced up. The force sent him sliding back several feet though, and his broken leg wavered underneath him. He barely saved himself from crashing to the floor as the kanima attacked again. This time, it expected Stiles' hasty shield and rammed into it with its shoulder, like it was breaking down a door. The brute force exploded against the shield and Stiles was lifted off his feet and slammed through the wall with the force of it.

He heard yelling as crashed through wood paneling and landed on a desk that collapsed under the blow. He let go of the staff and used both hands to jerk up his gun. He reacted on reflex—he couldn't afford the time to think about it—and fired three shots at the advancing kanima from his position on the floor. One bullet lodged in the ceiling. The other two hit the kanima solidly in the chest, and the creature roared in pain and fury. Then it staggered and seemed to go completely still. Stiles held his breath, finger quivering over the trigger as the broken pieces of wood dug into his back.

At last, the kanima drooped and collapsed.

Stiles released his breath with a quiet, "Well shit."

"WHAT THE HELL, DUDE?!"

Stiles startled and jerked into a sitting position, snapping his gun around to point towards the sound. There, he came face to face with... himself. His much younger, buzz-cut self and a much younger, less zen Derek Hale.

"Shit," Stiles said again, then lowered his gun and grabbed his staff. He wasn't prepared to deal with this right now. "Your burning questions are gonna have to wait, kid."

"Burning questions?!" the younger Stiles all but screeched. "Who are you? How you take down the kanima? Why do you—"

"I said wait," Stiles snapped, using the staff to lever himself to his feet. "So shut up, kid."

The younger him was probably gearing up for a response, but Stiles didn't wait for it. "Laura!" he called. "Cora, are you guys okay?"

"Yeah," Laura said, stumbling over. "I'm fi— Derek!" She stumbled forward and collapsed next to her brother.

"He's okay," Stiles assured her. "Just paralyzed by the kanima venom. He'll be fine once it wears off."

Cora stumbled over next, immediately joining the Hale sibiling reunion. Stiles was pretty sure it was torture for Derek not to be able to reciprocate the hugs. With a sigh, Stiles said, "I'm sorry to break this up, guys, but the fun's not over yet. We need to get the kanima out before it wakes up and we have to find everyone else."

"It's a kid from our school," the younger Stiles said, glaring at his older counterpart. "He's controlling the kanima. He's got my dad in lock-up. He's got Scott somewhere. And his mom."

Not new information, but Stiles was glad he didn't need to explain anything to the Hales. "Cora," he said. "Help me get the kanima out. Laura, get these two up and safe, and then go find the others. If you can get their blood pumping the venom will wear off a lot faster."

The girls nodded, though Cora looked reluctant to leave her brother and sister. Stiles turned and limped away from them, wanting to put as much distance between him and his past as he could. Cora threw Jackson over her shoulder and the three of them quickly made their way out of the station. Stiles directed Cora to toss the kanima into the bed of the truck while he found the supernatural-strength manacles he had acquired under suspicious circumstances and fastened them to Jackson's wrists and ankles. He was already starting to fade from kanima back to human. Stiles put down the tailgate and turned to Cora.

"I can handle the rest of this," he told her. "Get back in there and help Laura."

Cora didn't question it, just nodded and sprinted back into the building. Stiles didn't watch her go. He tossed the staff and got himself into the driver's seat. He started the engine and pulled out his phone. As he pointed the truck toward the less frequented parts of Beacon Hills, he dialled a number he'd long ago memorized and never forgotten.

It took three rings but finally, the phone was picked up. _"Hello?"_

"Lydia Martin?"

* * *

Lydia frowned when she saw the unfamiliar number pop up on her phone's screen. Usually, she ignored such calls, but tonight, she was worried. She'd seen even less of Jackson recently, and when she had seen him he seemed... off, wrong, hurt. Maybe this call was important. Maybe it was Jackson. Maybe it was about Jackson. Regardless, Lydia found herself picking up the phone and answering cautiously. "Hello?"

 _"Lydia Martin?"_ a gruff, tired voice asked through the phone.

Lydia pressed her lips together, feeling a sense of foreboding build in her chest. "Yes, who is this?"

 _"No one you know. But that's not important. What's important is that I've got Jackson Whittemore_ _in the back of my truck and he needs your help."_

Lydia drew in a sharp breath. "Is he okay?"

 _"Of course not,"_ said the man. _"That's why he needs you. I know you don't have much reason to trust me, and honestly, if I was in your shoes, I'd be incredibly wary about showing up where I ask you to, so I'm going to do my best to convince you, but you might just have to make a leap of faith, alright?"_

That sounded ominous, but something deep inside of Lydia told her with absolute clarity that she could trust this man. Besides, she'd just brought a man back to life after drugging a party with a purple flower and having hallucinations for months. With a deep breath, Lydia replied, "I'm on my way. Tell me where to meet you, and you can explain to me what the hell is going on with Jackson."

There was a pause at the other end of the line. _"Serious?"_

"Serious," Lydia confirmed, grabbing a pair of heels and her favorite coat. "Now give me an address."

## CH4SC4:

Laura had just gotten Derek sitting and was helping the Sheriff's kid up when Cora charged back into the station. "Is Mitch alright?" Laura asked, immediately concerned

"Yeah, he said he could handle it from there and sent me back to help you," Cora replied, crouching down next to Derek and smiling at him.

Laura sighed. "If he's sure, then I'm not gonna argue with him. Alright, you two," she said, addressing the two semi-paralyzed individuals. "Who else is in the station, again, and where are they?"

Derek shrugged a little. "I only knew about the kanima."

"My dad and Scott's mom are in holding," the sheriff's kid spoke up. "Scott's with Matt."

"Matt's the kid with the gun?" Laura asked for clarification. "He was controlling the kanima?"

"Yes and yes," the kid replied.

"Alright," Laura said, wrapping an arm around the kid's waist and pulling him up. "Matt first. What's your name, kid?"

"Stiles," he answered, trying desperately to get his lethargic feet underneath him and failing.

"You two good?" Laura asked her younger siblings.

Cora nodded and Derek grunted. Cora was more than strong enough to carry her brother's weight, but Derek seemed to be regaining his mobility fairly quickly.

"Let's go," Laura ordered, spinning around and heading out of the ruins of the room. She could hear the faint sound of voices from two ends of the station. Listening intently for a moment, she picked out an angry voice and headed in that direction. She wasn't an alpha anymore. Mitch had told her that her eyes were gold again. Her strength wasn't what it used to be, but her skill was still there. Only a minute later they found the two teenagers, one of them with a blood-soaked shirt and the other with angsty tears and a gun.

Laura shoved Stiles off toward Cora, who barely caught him, and charged the gun-toting teen.

Matt yelped in shock and stumbled back while Stiles' friend skittered out of the way. Laura tackled him to the ground, sending the gun sliding away and roaring in the terrified kid's face.

"A bit slow, aren't you?" Laura mused, grinning ferally down at the teen. "And I wouldn't bother calling for your kanima friend, he's been taken care of."

"What? That's—that's not—you can't—" Matt stammered, whole body trembling beneath her.

"We did," Laura told him. "So you can call all you want, he isn't coming." Laura shoved him as she stood up. She retrieved the gun, made sure the safety was off, and tucked it into her jeans. She turned to Stiles' friend, Scott.

"Who are you?" Scott asked, looking at her with awe.

"Laura Hale," Laura answered, eyes straying to his bloodied side. "You're Scott, right? Your side alright?"

"Yeah, it's healing," Scott said dismissively. "I'm fine. We thought you were dead."

"Was for a bit, I think," Laura answered. "But that's another story. For now, let's get your mom and the Sheriff, alright?"

Scott nodded, and went to grab Stiles from Cora. "We'll show you the way. Okay, Stiles?"

Stiles shook his head mutely, and managed to grasp the fabric of Scott's shirt and hold on tight.

Scott nodded like he understood, and pointed out one of the doors. "Holding cells are that way."

Laura nodded and then looked down at Matt, who had his eyes squeezed shut, like he was trying to summon the kanima by sheer force of will. Laura kicked him a little to get his attention. She let her claws slide out and ordered, "Up. Now."

Matt did as he was told, and the six of them headed for the holding cells.

* * *

Jackson still didn't believe he was a kanima. Which was completely ridiculous. He sat on the ground, shaking his chains and shouting about how his dad was a lawyer and whoever he was, he was going to jail for a really long time.

Stiles sighed and sat back, waiting for Lydia to come. When she finally did, Stiles had to stop himself from leaping up and greeting her like an old friend. Instead, he waited for her to do a double-take over his appearance, Jackson's chains, and pull herself back together again.

"Lydia!" Jackson shouted, relieved but still angry. "This guy is crazy, he—"

"Please be quiet, Mr. Whittemore," Stiles said, as civilly as he could manage.

Jackson scoffed and opened his mouth to reply, but when he tried, no sound came. Stiles smiled. He'd always wanted to do that. "Relax," he told him.

Lydia eyed Jackson a moment, then focused on him. She walked up to him, no fear in her eyes, and stuck out her hand. "Lydia Martin."

Stiles couldn't help the amusement, but he tried to tone it down, because Lydia was deadly serious. Taking her hand, he replied, "Mitch Stilinski."

"Are you related to the Sheriff?" Lydia asked, curious but trying to appear aloof and in control, as always.

"I'm his older son, and no, his younger son doesn't know, but that's a story for another time," Stiles said. He motioned toward Jackson. "For now, let's help Jackson."

Lydia nodded. "So, he's a giant lizard with paralytic venom, doesn't know it, and needs to have a spiritual awakening to fix it."

Stiles snorted. All these years, he'd forgotten how much dry humor Lydia possessed. "Got it in one."

"And you're a magical werewolf wrangler, so you can help him," Lydia continued. "And I'm his former girlfriend and the only person he's really let himself have an emotional connection to, so I can help him."

"Precisely," Stiles confirmed.

"Let's get started then," Lydia said, turning to Jackson.

Stiles nodded and came up to crouch down in front of Jackson. "If I let you have your vocal chords back, are you going to keep shouting?"

Jackson gave him a mulish glare but nodded anyway.

Stiles waved his hand, more for effect than a practical need to (he could admit to being a little theatrical.) "Alright, Jackson, let me give this to you simple and straightforward. I'm perfectly aware that you don't believe a word of this, so no need to interrupt with your scoffing. Lydia is here because she believes in all this, and because you trust her, even if you guys are on the outs at this point. You gonna hear me out?"

"Do I have a choice?" Jackson grumbled, shifting his chains.

"You always have a choice, Jackson," Stiles told him seriously. "I'm sorry to put you through this, but people are dying, and would much rather not kill you for something you don't have control over."

Jackson stared at him for a long moment, then glanced back at Lydia. "I think you're absolutely crazy," he said to Stiles. "But I don't want you to kill me either."

"Fantastic," Stiles said, clapping his hands together. "Now that we're all on the same page, we can move forward."

* * *

Scott and Stiles entered the holding area first, Matt following and Laura keeping an eye on him. Cora and Derek hung back by the entrance.

"Stiles! Scott!" the sheriff said, shoulders sagging in relief as he saw the two boys were alright.

"Keys," Laura demanded of Matt, fixing him with her best alpha werewolf glare. She may not have red eyes anymore, but that didn't mean she'd forgotten how to be an alpha.

Matt wavered for only a moment before he pulled the keys out of his pocket and dropped them into Laura's hand.

Laura kept her eyes on him as she unlocked the sheriff, who immediately went to take his son from Scott.

Scott easily let the sheriff fuss over his son, taking the keys from Laura's proffered hand and hurrying to unlock his mom. As soon as she was out she went to check her son's bullet wound.

"Not yet, Mom," Scott said, gripping the hem of his shirt so his mother couldn't lift it up to see his healing side. "Just... hold on a minute."

"Sweetie," his mother started, but Laura stepped forward and intervened.

"If you'll just give us a minute, ma'am, we can explain everything, but this is not the place to do it." Laura turned to Matt and motioned toward the holding cell. "In," she ordered. "The Sheriff can read you your Miranda rights later."

Matt hesitated, glancing around. He must have decided that him against four werewolves and a sheriff was a bad idea when he had no kanima to back him up—which was the smartest move he'd made all night—and went willingly into the holding cell. As Scott locked it behind him, Matt couldn't resist one last verbal dig. "They have no idea what you are, do they?" Matt sneered.

He might've gone on, but Laura had enough of angsty teenager for one night. "There's only one person confused tonight, and she's about to be brought up to speed, so you can shut your mouth, please and thank you."

Matt's mouth snapped shut, and then Stiles whispered, "I like your sister more than you, Derek."

Cora snorted, and Laura shot the kid a grin.

Then, of course, everything went to hell.

* * *

This had been a terrible idea.

It wasn't working.

Jackson the kanima again and he was going mad trying to break free of the chains to reach his master, who was undoubtedly calling for him to get him out of trouble.

Stiles clutched his arm where Jackson had gotten in a good swipe, and staggered back, wishing he hadn't lost hold of his magic crutch.

"This isn't working!" Lydia exclaimed.

"No kidding," Stiles grumbled. He needed Jackson in the half-human, half-kanima state that meant he was aware of what was happening but not homicidal. Then Lydia needed to tell him she loved him anyway so Jackson could get over his self-worth issues because if Lydia Martin could love you at your worst, then identity issues just seemed silly. Or at least, that's what Stiles thought it came down to, but the point was, it worked.

"Mitch!" Lydia shouted, because Jackson was managing to scramble his way towards him at alarming speed for someone with chains around their wrists and ankles.

"Shit," Stiles grumbled. As Jackson leaped clumsily at him, Stiles sidestepped and wrapped his arms around Jackson's middle toppling both himself and the kanima to the ground.

Stiles held on as hard as he could as Jackson writhed. He could feel the claws nicking and scratching him, but he gripped as hard as he could and yelled to Lydia, "Lydia, scream! Scream his name!"

His mind went slightly dirty places when he said that, and from the glimpse he got of Lydia's incredulous expression he cold tell that hers had gone there too. "Lydia, I mean it!" Stiles shouted. "Scream!"

Something in Lydia must've understood what he meant, because a moment later the familiar sound of Lydia's banshee scream, shaped into Jackson's name, echoed around the old warehouse.

* * *

Jackson stilled in Stiles' arms, and the rough feeling of scales began to give into soft flesh.

"Lydia, talk to him," Stiles said breathlessly. "Lydia, talk to him now."

Lydia crashed to her knees in front of them. "Jackson? Jackson, can you hear me?"

"Lydia?"

Stiles loosened his grip as Jackson came to his senses.

"Jackson, you have to beat this," Lydia said, hands coming up to flutter over his face. "You can't let Matt control you like this. You can't let him make you keep killing people."

"Do you—" Jackson choked, heaving huge breaths. "Do you still love me?"

Tears welled up in Lydia's eyes. "Yeah," she said softly, nodding with her lips trembling. "Yeah, I still love you, Jackson."

"You can do this, Jackson," Stiles said, finally speaking up. "You can take control. Focus on whatever you need to focus on. Focus on Lydia. Take control of yourself."

"Since when have you ever let anyone tell you what to do or what to be?" Lydia added, brushing away the tears. "You're Jackson Whittemore, you don't listen to be anybody."

Jackson's body sagged completely against Stiles. "Right, I'm Jackson Whittemore."

"That's good enough for me," Stiles muttered. He let go of Jackson with one arm and fished the keys to the chains out of his pocket. "Here," he handed them to Lydia. "Take the keys and your boyfriend. I'm gonna get him some pants."

Lydia immediately took Jackson into her arms and started unlocking the manacles.

Stiles staggered to his feet and limped over to where he'd dropped his bag. He pulled out a pair of sweatpants and grabbed his magical crutch from where it had skittered away. He hobbled back over to them and handed Jackson the sweatpants before collapsing onto the ground.

Jackson started to put them on, and Lydia turned to Stiles, eyeing his leg. "That looks bad," she commented. "Is it broken?"

"Yeah, think so," Stiles said, stretching his leg out and grimacing. "But I'll deal with it later. We're not done with Jackson yet."

Jackson scowled a little at them but seemed a bit to drained emotionally to complain about it. He sat down next to Lydia again, and shivered.

"Cold?" Stiles asked, already shrugging out of his jacket.

"I'm fine," Jackson said, turning up his nose at Stiles' jacket.

"Just take it, Jackson. I'm hot and sweaty already from you trying to kill me," Stiles said, tossing it into his lap.

Jackson unfolded it. "Why does it say 'STILES'?" Jackson asked as he reluctantly shrugged it on.

"My grandfather went by Stiles too, in the army," Stiles replied, containing his amusement as Jackson seemed to hug the jacket close around him, for all his protests.

"And you're Stiles' brother," Jackson said.

Stiles couldn't tell if it was a question or not, but he was all for Jackson feeling comfortable around him while he tried to teach him control, so he nodded. "I guess I am," he replied.

"You guess?" Lydia echoed, hand reaching out to clasp Jackson's.

Stiles shrugged. "We've never met. He doesn't even know about me. Or didn't, I guess. The cat's out of the bag now."

"Sounds like a story," Jackson said.

"I'll tell you sometime, if you survive tonight," Stiles promised. "But you need to have some semblance of control over your shift, so that people will be less likely to try to kill you or control you, alright?"

Jackson nodded slowly. "Alright, so I'm a werewolf now?"

"Yeah, you're a werewolf now," Stiles nodded. "With issues. I'm sure you'll take to it like a fish to water, but that doesn't mean it won't take any work, so let's get started."

* * *

Everyone instinctively ducked as the sound of machine gun fire ripped through the station, even though they were mostly protected by the concrete walls around them.

"The Argents," Scott said, looking over at Stiles, then Derek.

"You four should go," the sheriff said to Laura. "We'll stay."

Laura nodded. If Argents really were here, they'd be here for the werewolves, and maybe the kanima, but it wasn't here and they were. She turned to Scott and his mother.

"Ma'am, we have to leave, Scott too, but you should stay," Laura said as gently as she could with the gunfire echoing around them. "I promise I'll take care of your son. I'll make sure he's okay, alright?"

"Melissa," the sheriff added. "He'll be alright, you can trust Laura."

Melissa looked from the sheriff to Laura to Scott. "I don't understand what's going on," she said quietly, barely heard over the shouting and the banging of doors and the gunfire.

"And I'll explain everything, Mom, I promise," Scott said, giving her a quick hug.

"Let's go," Laura said, spinning on her heel and visually checking her two siblings. Cora was tense and ready. Derek was standing on his own. He gave her a little nod. Laura nodded back and set off, her two siblings on her heels and Scott following.

Scott sped up to keep pace with her. "I know the station," he explained. "I can show you the back way out."

Laura nodded and let Scott lead, glancing back to make sure Derek and Cora were keeping pace. They were.

They made it three minutes before they heard someone coming. The three Hales immediately ducked into a side room. Scott wasn't quite as quick and was caught standing out in the hall as the footsteps rounded the corner.

*"Oh sh—Allison."

Laura was seconds away from bursting back out the door to help him, but Derek grabbed her arm. "He knows her," Derek said, too quietly for human ears. "Give him a second."

Laura nodded, but remained ready to go to Scott's aid.

*"Where's Derek?" Allison questioned, her voice cold.

*"What are you doing?" Scott asked.

*"If you're not going to tell me, then get out of my way," Allison said.

*"Allison," Scott pleaded.

*"Where is he?" Allsion asked again.

*"What happened?" Scott tried.

*"Scott—Scott, you need to stay away from me right now. I need to go. Just stay out of my way." With a patter of light footsteps Allison headed down the hallway and past the Hales' hiding place.

Scott poked his head in through the door. "Let me look ahead a minute," he said. "It sounds like they're looking for you Derek, not me. Just give me a second."

Laura nodded. "Only for a minute though, Scott. Don't go far."

Scott nodded back and disappeared from the doorway.

"So, why does this girl wanna kill you so much, Der?" Cora spoke up, keeping her voice low.

"Her mother tried to kill Scott, I saved him, but bit her mother in the process," Derek said shortly. "Her mother killed herself."

Cora shook her head at that, but Laura caught on to something else. "You're the alpha now?" Laura asked quietly.

Derek nodded.

"I thought it would've been Peter," Laura said.

"I killed Peter," Derek whispered.

"Because you thought he killed me," Laura replied softly, partly for Cora's benefit.

Derek bobbed his head. "And he was killing others. He bit Scott."

"He seems like a good kid," Laura commented.

Derek inclined his head in agreement. Then he opened his mouth to say something else, but Scott popped his head back in.

"It's all clear," Scott said. "We'd better keep moving."


	5. Chapter 5

They all end up at Deaton's. It's neutral ground, as far as the Hale pack vs the rest of them are concerned. Mitch was the first to arrive with Lydia and Jackson. By the time Noah, Melissa, and Stiles made it (all tense from the drive over), Jackson was sitting on the examination table being poked and prodded by Deaton.

"How are you doing, son?" Noah asked Jackson as kindly as he could.

Jackson shrugged a little, glancing over at Mitch like he was looking for some sort of permission. Whatever reassurance he was looking for, he got it when Mitch nodded. "Yeah, I'm a werewolf now. No lizard thing."

"Whoa, wait," Stiles jumped in, looking from Jackson, to Lydia, then glaring at Mitch. "What do you mean, you're a werewolf now?"

"We had a heart to heart, and he decided he didn't want to be a homicidal lizard anymore," Mitch said lazily from where he was sat on a stool, leaning against the wall. "One plastic surgery later, bam, werewolf."

Jackson snorted, then started as Deaton placed something cold and metal against his chest. "Really? A stethoscope?"

"Just looking for any irregularities," Deaton explained, unrepentant.

"Just suffer through it, Jackson," Mitch said. "It's easier that way."

Jackson scowled but didn't protest.

Noah decided he'd had enough holding back. He hadn't seen his son in 9 months, and he'd been worried sick about him the whole time. He opened his arms, and Mitch immediately stood to accept the hug.

"Hey, Dad," he said, nearly leaning his whole weight onto Noah. "Missed you."

"Glad you're still alive, son," Noah said, wrapping his arms tight around his time-traveling son. "You had me worried."

"Yeah, well, you know me," Mitch said, easing back. He glanced at the other two newcomers. "Mrs. McCall, nice to see you again."

"You can call me Melissa, Mitch," Melissa said, giving him a wan smile.

"Have you been filled in, Melissa?" Mitch asked, expression gentle.

Melissa nodded. Noah had explained everything as best he could to her back at the station, and she had taken it with the severity of his expression and said nothing. Noah wasn't sure if she hadn't fully processed it, or if it was something else, but she remained quiet, tense, and a little overwhelmed. But still, she had insisted on coming.

"Has everyone met you except for me?!" Stiles finally exclaimed, voice shrill and strained.

Noah sighed. He had wondered how long before Stiles demanded his explanations. Frankly, he was surprised it had taken this long.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," Deaton said smoothly, stepping away from Jackson to offer his hand to Mitch. "Alan Deaton."

Mitch shook his hand firmly. "Mitch Stilinksi."

"You wouldn't happen to be the same Mitch Stilinski that studied under Robert Baird, would you?" Deaton asked, raising an eyebrow.

"The very same," Mitch replied easily. "You know the hardass?"

"I had the misfortune of studying under him for a time as well." Deaton's face contorted into something half grimace, half smile. "I'm afraid we didn't see eye-to-eye."

"Our time together was short as well," Mitch said without malice.

"You've made quite a name for yourself since then," Deaton noted.

Mitch gave Noah a victorious smirk at that. "See? I told you."

Noah rolled his eyes, but couldn't help but smile in response. Then he looked over at Stiles and his smile dropped, because Mitch and Deaton's casually friendly introduction didn't seem to have calmed him down at all.

That was the moment the werewolves chose to knock on the door.

"That'll be the rest of our guests," Deaton said, like this was a dinner party instead of a supernatural powow. He quickly let the wolves through the mountain ash barrier. "Come in."

Laura stalked in first, followed by Scott, then trailed by Derek and Cora.

"I must say I was surprised to hear you two ladies were alive," Deaton said, looking from Laura to Cora.

"Pleasantly surprised, I hope," Laura said, eyes sweeping over the room and taking in all the individuals there.

"Indeed," Deaton replied mildly. "Well, now that we're all here, I think I can confirm for you all that Jackson is no longer the kanima."

"How do you know?" Stiles spoke up, scowl rivalling both those of Jackson's sulky mood and Derek's usual mood.

"Aside from his reaction the small amount of wolfsbane he came into contact with," Deaton answered. "He was able to partially shift for me before the rest of you arrived."

"Do it now," Derek demanded, stepping forward.

Jackson glared and opened his mouth to protest, but Mitch beat him to it. "No," he said firmly. "That's not a good idea."

Derek's eyes glinted red, and he crossed his arms over his chest. "Why not?"

"Because Jackson managed his partial shift while he was still running on adrenaline and anger and fear," Mitch explained, unaffected by Derek's intimidation tactics. "Now he's settled and for the most part calm. I'd like him to stay that way, rather than working him up again. He's had a rough day already."

"Remind us why we should trust you again?" Stiles snapped.

Mitch subsided, fixing his gaze on Stiles like he wasn't quite sure how to react to him.

"I think," Deaton interjected. "That given Mr. Stilinski's reputation, we can take him at his word about this."

For a moment everyone in the room looked at Deaton in confusion, except for Noah, until Laura's expression cleared. "Oh, you're that Mitch Stilinski."

Cora and Derek both understood at the same moment as well. Something like admiration settled on their faces as they looked at Mitch with fresh eyes.

"Really?!" Stiles groaned, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration.

Scott sidled up to Stiles. "Uh, Stiles, what are they talking about?"

"The hell if I know," Stiles groused, fists clenching at his sides.

"Okay, well, I trust him," Cora said. "This kid's not going to try to slice me open with slimy claws anymore. Can we move on now?"

"Yes let's," Stiles said hotly. "Let's move on to who the hell you are," he jabbed a finger at Mitch, "and how the hell you knew what to do, and what the hell you're doing here."

"Before we move on to that, " Lydia slid out of the shadows, where most people had forgotten about her. "I think we should address the fact that our very brave and very stupid hero's leg is broken, and he's been walking on it all night."

"What?!" Noah and Melissa spoke at the same time, equally horrified at that statement.

Mitch sent Lydia a betrayed look, which she responded to with a beatific smile. Jackson took the opportunity to jump off the table and replace himself with Mitch, who stumbled and flailed a little in indignation.

"Hey!" he yelped as Jackson easily lifted him by the waist and set him on the table where he'd just been.

"Oh yeah, I practically had to carry him all over Mag Mell while we were looking for a way out," Laura contributed.

"Et tu, Laura?" Mitch muttered.

"Mag Mell?" Deaton echoed.

"Thank guys," Mitch pouted.

Lydia patted his arm. "Anytime."

"You mean to say he's been walking around on a broken leg for 8 months?" Noah asked Laura, his gut coiling.

"Sorta," Laura said. "Time passes differently there, but I couldn't say how long. It's all a bit of a blur."

Melissa was already starting to fold up the leg of Mitch's jeans to get a look at the injury. "How did it break?"

Seeing the indecision in Mitch's eyes, Noah added, "The absolute truth, Mitch."

Mitch grimaced, but conceded. "A hunter smashed it."

"With what?" Melissa asked, tentatively pressing her fingers against the skin of his leg.

"His boot," Mitch answered.

"How's the pain?" Melissa questioned.

"On a scale of 1 to 10?" Mitch clarified.

Melissa nodded, and Mitch said, "Four."

"Nine," Noah translated, ignoring Mitch's gusty sigh.

"It's really not that bad," Mitch said. He turned to Deaton. "I made it through Mag Mell like this. Can't I just magic it better? I haven't really read up on healing magic but I'm sure…"

Deaton was already shaking his head. "Healing broken bones, while simplistic in practice, is not a simple process, nor a recommended one, unless you extremely powerful and extremely skilled. And extremely practiced. Your magic, and the magic of Mag Mell, are probably the only reason you've gotten this far."

"What do you mean?" Mitch asked, twitching a little away from Melissa's hands.

"The body exists differently in Mag Mell," Deaton said. "Seeing your relative good health, I'm assuming you didn't eat or drink anything while you were there."

Mitch shook his head. "Nothing."

"You didn't even drink water?" Deaton pushed.

"No," Mitch said, shaking his head again.

"If you were in our world, you wouldn't have lasted very long without water," Deaton pointed out. "But in Mag Mell, it's different. You wouldn't have been hungry and thirsty in the same way, but I bet when you came back you slept a lot, then ate and drank a lot."

"Yeah, that's about how it went," Mitch confirmed.

"I can only guess, but I'd say that in the same way, your leg was stressed, but it wasn't worsened and you had a limited ability to use it. However, what've you done to it since you've been back, I'm sure has been damaging. I'd definitely recommend a hospital at this point."

"And an X-ray," Melissa added. "If I had to guess, I'd say it's just a fracture. If it's misaligned, it's only barely. But if you've been walking and fighting on it, I'm almost certain that you've got stress fractures to go along with it. If it was misaligned and had started to heal enough that you could use it, we might have to re-break the bone so we can set it and let it heal correctly. We'd probably have to put a rod in there to keep it straight."

"Whoa, let me stop you at re-break the bone ," Mitch said, eyes wide.

"As it is," Melissa continued, giving him her best Nurse McCall glare. "You're looking at the full 8 weeks in the cast, at the very very least. Not to mention physical therapy afterwards. Depending on how bad it is, there could be extensive nerve damage. You might not be able to use it properly ever again."

"Whoa, whoa," Mitch protested. "Don't get all doomsday on me, it's not-"

"Sounds like he should go to the hospital immediately," Noah cut in.

"Absolutely," Melissa agreed. "We need to take care of that leg as soon as possible."

"But what about the Argents?" Mitch protested.

"We can take care of the Argents," Scott spoke.

"Really?" Mitch said, with an acerbic, doubtful look at Scott. "What's your grand plan?"

"Me and Derek have a plan," Scott said, chin tilting up in the air.

Mitch stilled, eyes flickering between Derek and Scott. "You and Derek have a plan," he echoed, dubious, but also a touch lost.

"Yeah," Scott nodded. "Me and Stiles, and Derek and his pack, we'll take care of it. We've got a plan. It's a good one."

"I don't know about good ," Stiles muttered.

"It'll work," Derek said confidently. He shifted, facing Mitch like they were squaring off to fight. "We don't need you to sweep in and solve all our problems. Thanks for taking care of the kanima, but we can take it from here. Go to the hospital."

The whole room stilled in the wake of Derek's little speech. Stiles, Scott, and Derek appeared to take a united front against the rest of the people in the room, who were waiting for Mitch to reply.

For his part, Mitch didn't seem offended or angry. He looked like he was trying to work something out in his head, but it wasn't adding up. The silence stretched for a full, tense minute until Laura, as she seemed prone to do, broke it.

"He shouldn't even walk out of here, should he, Mrs. McCall?"

"Definitely not," Melissa said, stepping back from her examination.

"I'll carry him," Laura volunteered.

Mitch looked away from Derek so he could roll his eyes at Laura. "My knight in shining armor," he grumbled, but he dutifully wrapped his arms around Laura's neck as she scooped him up into her arms like a proper damsel in distress. Laura grinned at him, holding him up easily with her werewolf strength. Mitch snorted and rolled his eyes again. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up."

"I'm just thinking I've been carrying you around a lot," Laura said. "You're like a limpet, or a leech or something."

"You're the one who keeps picking me up, Laura Hale" Mitch argued, but he seemed pretty at ease in her grasp. "Might give a guy the wrong idea."

Laura laughed again, then hefted him up a little in her arms. "Alright, princess, let's go," she joked. She nodded to the rest of the room, then strode out of the vet clinic, Melissa following after.

As Melissa passed by, she glanced briefly at her son. Scott straightened up, hopeful, but Melissa just ducked her head and hurried out of the room. Scott slumped.

Noah stepped up and placed a hand on Scott's shoulder. "Don't worry about it, son," he reassured him. "She'll come around. Just give her some time to take it all in."

Scott nodded. "Uh, how long have you, uh, known?"

"About you, or the supernatural?" Noah asked.

"Me," Scott said, glancing at Stiles, then dropping his gaze.

Noah clapped him on the shoulder. "Probably within a few days of you getting bitten," he admitted. "You'll be fine, Scott. I promise."

Scott nodded and gave him a grateful smile.

"I'm starving," Cora piped up, elbowing her brother in the side. "Any good burger places around?"

Derek nodded and headed out the door without a word, Cora eagerly following.

Noah turned to Jackson. "I think I should probably take you home, Jackson."

Jackson grabbed a jacket from the table and shrugged it on over his loose t shirt. It was Mitch's jacket, Noah noticed, but he decided not to question it. Jackson pulled the keys to Mitch's truck out of the pocket. "What about his truck?"

Noah took the keys. He hesitated for a moment, before handing them over to Scott. "Take his truck back to the station. You can leave it there, and take the jeep home, both of you," he said, eyeing both Scott and Stiles. "Don't mess around. Straight there, drop the truck off, and both of you head home. Scott, you're welcome to stay at ours if you want. Got it?"

They both nodded. Scott looked honest about it, but the tight-lipped, mulish expression on Stiles face made Noah's heart twist. He sighed. "Thank you, Alan, we appreciate the middle ground."

Deaton nodded. "Whatever I can do to help, Noah."

Noah nodded to Lydia, then beckoned to Jackson to follow him out of the animal clinic. Thankfully, Jackson seemed too tired to act his usual belligerent self, and obeyed without argument, which Noah was immensely grateful for. It had been a long night, but it wasn't over yet. As soon as he dropped Jackson off and made sure the Whittemores were all set, he was heading straight for the hospital to make sure his wayward son was alright. For all he knew, Mitch was hiding some life threatening injury.

Long night indeed.

* * *

Stiles clenched his hands into fists at his sides and watched his dad go. This was ridiculous. Completely and 100% the most ridiculous thing that had ever happened to him. First, Matt comes to shoot up the Sheriff's station, killing four deputies in the process, which Stiles was never ever going to forget, much less forgive.

Then he finds out that he's got a long lost brother. Some long lost brother who he's already sure is an exceptional douche, an asshole of Peter Hale proportions. But his dad loves him, and worries about him. Everyone's amazed by him and his reputation one second, then fussing over him and his broken leg the next second.

Stiles felt Scott grab onto his arm and start steering him out of the clinic. "Night, Dr. Deaton," Scott told his boss. "See you around, Lydia."

"Oh no," Lydia said, suddenly walking ahead of Scott and Stiles. "I'm coming with you two."

"Uh, why?" Scott asked, pulling Stiles after her and out the door.

"I need a ride to my car," Lydia answered glibly. "You can take me to my car after we drop this off at the station."

They came up to the truck. It was the same light, baby blue color of Stiles's jeep. Stiles' rage flared up in his chest.

"Stiles, man, I really think you should just let it out," Scott said, releasing his arm. "It's not good for you to hold in your rants like this, and it's kinda weirding me out to see you silently angry."

"This is so stupid!" Stiles burst out, like his verbal dam was just waiting for Scott to break it down. "I mean, a long lost brother?! Really? Really, Universe? Some long lost brother that almost everybody knows about, except for me. Some long lost brother that everyone's soooo impressed by. Because he's 'that Mitch Stilinski.' What does that even mean? Why's he just showing up now? How come my dad knows him, but I don't? What kind of asshole is he? Why did my dad lie to me? And how the hell did he know how to help Jackson? I mean, should we not be massively suspicious of this guy? Maybe he's not my long lost brother. Maybe it's a stupid cover for infiltrating Beacon Hills, and he's just made my Dad believe he's his son."

"And made Deaton and the Hales believe he's someone with a respectable reputation?" Lydia cut in doubtfully.

"Maybe!" Stiles flailed. "Maybe he's a murderer, or a spy, or some bastard witch guy. And his truck is fucking blue!" Stiles slammed his fist into the faded blue metal of his supposed brother's truck. He didn't come close to denting the truck, which would've been immensely satisfying. Instead, his hand exploded in pain. He retreated from the truck, breathing hard and cradling his hand. Heat pulsed up his arm from his hand, and he bit the inside of his cheek hard.

Scott reached out slowly. "Hey, Stiles, we'll figure it out, okay?"

Stiles chewed on his cheek and looked away from Scott and the truck.

"Hey, whoever this guy is, we'll figure it out together, like we always do," Scott assured him. "I'm on your side, whatever happens. If this guy is evil, we'll deal with him together."

"Well, he's definitely an asshole," Stiles grumbled, opening and closing his trembling hand.

"Are you two done?" Lydia called out from the other side of the truck where she was opening the cab on the passenger side. "We aren't going to find out anything about your long lost brother standing out here."

"Uh, what?" Scott said, a little dumbly as he headed over to the truck. "The sheriff said to take his truck straight to the station."

"Then drive slow," Lydia said, climbing into the backseat.

Stiles took a deep breath and went around to follow Lydia into the passenger side of the truck. She was right. They could do a little digging while they headed to the station, and no one would be the wiser. This was probably one of the best opportunities they were going to get.

Scott was climbing into the driver's seat just as Stiles shut his door. Scott carefully shut the driver's door, but made no move to push the keys into the ignition. He twisted around to look at Lydia as she picked up a huge case leaning against the window. She slid it over her lap and undid the clasps. As she lifted the lid, her eyebrows shot up. "Sniper rifle," she said, laying the lid back so that Scott and Stiles could see.

"Bolt-action," Stiles added, leaning over to get a better look. "M24."

"Don't they use this in the Israeli Defense Forces?" Lydia asked, though Stiles was sure it was a rhetorical question because she would know better than him and Scott.

"It's top-notch," Stiles agreed.

"Okay, so he just got a little bit scarier," Scott murmured.

Lydia closed the case and started rooting around through the bags and stacks of books at her feet. The two boys watched her unearth a small pillow, folded blanket, and bag of utilities. "He must live out of this truck. Stiles, check the glove compartment," Lydia ordered. "And under the seats. Scott, start driving, but drive slow."

The boys twisted around to obey. Scott turned the key, and the engine hummed to life, filling the car with a low rumble. As they pulled out, Stiles opened the glove compartment. "Glock, vehicle registration, duct tape, Vicodin, Adderall," Stiles reported.

Scott huffed. "Maybe you are related after all."

Stiles shot Scott a brief glare.

"Hefty first aid kit," Lydia commented. The sound of her unzipping the kit had Stiles turning around in his seat again. "And clearly equipped for a human who deals with the supernatural often."

"So we can be sure he's human," Scott said. "That's not so bad."

"Kate was human. Gerard is human," Stiles pointed out, facing front again so he could slid his hands under the seat. He slid out a small cardboard box. He pulled it onto his lap and flipped up the flaps. "Burner phones, lots of burner phones. And chargers and a couple of USB drives." He grabbed one and tucked it into his hoodie pocket.

"That's a little risky," Lydia pointed out. "You don't know when you'll get the chance to put that back."

"I'm not too concerned with giving this back to him," Stiles said, returning the box and feeling around under the seats again. This time, he found a little book. He flipped it open and saw it was a contact book. His eyebrows shot up as he scanned each page.

"What's that?" Lydia asked, leaning over the front bench.

"Supernatural yellow pages," Stiles replied, frowning. Some numbers just had a single name. Some had a name and a state or a city. Others had much more detail, or notes that would only make sense to the author. "That one chick with the funky scar," Stiles read. "Fire Engine. Fun Times Monster, Montana. Fun Times Monster's brother, North Dakota. Singer. Alpha werewolf, Doloroso."

"Sounds like he's been around," Lydia commented, sitting back.

"No kidding, I'm seeing every state in here, and a lot of cities I don't recognize," Stiles agreed, fingers fluttering through the pages. "I don't know how this makes sense at all to him. How does he remember all these people? This number is just labelled 'Scary Bastard.' Isn't that, like, 90% of all supernatural creatures. Then he's got, like 10 different numbers under 'Rifle Brothers.'"

"He's got a lot of old books back here," Lydia told them. "And several jars of what look like rare, expensive herbs and… I'd guess these are dragon scales, or something like that."

Stiles had to get a look at that. "Dragon scales," he repeated, and he had to agree, that's what the iridescent pieces looked like.

"Whatever he is," Lydia said, setting the jar back into its bag. "He's the real deal."

"We're almost there," Scott warned them.

Stiles glanced at the road. He knew if they floored it, they could probably make it to the station in 3 minutes. Driving the speed limit would probably take them 5 minutes. "Obnoxiously slow might give us 7 minutes," he said to Lydia.

Lydia nodded, holding up a larger book. She snorted at the first page and turned it around to show Stiles. Along the empty page, scrawled in loopy, messy script were the wordsStilinski & Son: Hungry Like a Wolf Catering . Beneath that, in slightly neater, much smaller words, was how to feed loads and loads of werewolves. To use if the circus doesn't pan out.

"What is it?" Scott asked, keeping his eyes on the road like a good driver.

"He's got a werewolf cookbook and a sense of humor," Lydia answered, she paged through the recipes. "Lots and lots of carbs and meat. He's even got notes and cute little doodles and hearts and stars. Suddenly, he's a little bit less terrifying."

"Look at that sniper rifle again," Stiles suggested. "You'll feel better."

"Gerard had a cookbook too," Scott reminded.

"Points in the evil category then," Stiles said.

Lydia rolled her eyes, but didn't dignify that comment with a response. "There were a lot of cases and bags in the bed of the truck too."

"So, conclusion, he's a dangerous guy," Stiles said. "So definitely be very very suspicious of him and his intentions."

"He did help Jackson though," Lydia said. "Really, I was there. He helped him. And he explained things to me, which is more than you two idiots were willing to do."

Stiles heard the real anger in her voice, but was distracted by seeing another burner phone, this one on the floor near Scott's feet. It must've been the most recently used one. Stiles snatched it up. It was battered and covered in dirt and shining dust. Brushing it off, Stiles pressed the power button. Nothing personal was on it that Stiles could see, just a lot of voicemail messages. Stiles waved the phone under Scott's nose. "What does your werewolf nose smell, Scotty?"

Scott wrinkled his nose. "Sweet and salty."

"What really?"

"Yeah really," Scott said, pushing away the phone. "Like stale air and salt, and something really sweet. And maybe burning, but I'm not sure."

"Helpful," Stiles grumbled, then went to the voicemail messages. There were a lot of them, but only from one number-a number that Stiles immediately recognized as his dad's cell phone. Swallowing hard, Stiles scrolled down a ways and picked one of the earlier ones.

"This is the last number you called me from, so I'm just going to keep trying it until you answer because I don't know what else to do."

The message ended and Stiles picked an older one.

"Mitch! Where are you? We found a huge pool of blood in the woods. Laura Hale's, we think. Are you alright? Is she alright? Call me as soon as you can, son."

Stiles stomach twisted and he scrolled up, finding a newer message. His dad's voice came up again, tired and stressed.

"Mitch, I really need you to be okay. I really need you to call. Things are happening here in Beacon Hills, and I need you here to help me. Stiles is mixed up in all this already with Scott. I think he got turned. I could really use your expertise right now."

Stiles exchanged a look with Scott, then played another message.

"Hey son, I... just call me please. Soon."

Scott put the truck into park. Stiles hadn't even realized they had made it to the station. They sat in silence and stillness for a moment.

"Either this is an incredibly complex ruse that's been in the making for quite some time," Lydia concluded. "Or at least some of what Mitch has been saying is true."

Stiles sighed heavily and tossed the phone back onto the floor. "Long lost brother, my ass."

"Come on," Scott said, tucking the keys into his pocket. "Let's go. I want to get to bed as soon as possible. We can sleep on… all this."

Stiles nodded and got out of the truck. Lydia followed and soon they were all piled into Stiles' jeep. The ride to Lydia's car was quiet. She quickly bid them farewell and good night. Scott and Stiles made it home by 1:00 in the morning. They both crashed into Stiles' bed, fully clothed and dropped off into exhausted sleep.

* * *

Laura didn't know how Mitch managed to stay awake through his X-ray or his whole visit with the doctor. He stayed awake through the whole process, but all it did was confirm Mrs McCall's educated guess. He had fractured the bone badly, with stress fractures webbing out from the original break, which hadn't had the chance to heal. But they weren't going to do anything about it yet, because apparently, he was also dehydrated, mildly malnourished, deeply exhausted, bruised, and sporting several long gashes from the kanima that he had forgotten to mention. Essentially, it was going to be a long hospital visit for him.

Mitch got all that, then told them he was passing out now, and they couldn't stop him.

Laura shook her head, feeling an exasperated fondness well up in her chest.

The sheriff collapsed into the nearest chair, shedding his coat as he went. "He's going to be the death of me."

Mrs. McCall smiled a little and patted the sheriff's shoulder. "He'll pull through, Noah. He's going to be okay."

"This time," the sheriff said, but he gave her a small smile anyway. "But… well, there's no way to change him. He's always going to be diving head first into trouble."

"Well, we had better keep him out of it for the next two months so he can heal." Mrs. McCall smiled at the sheriff, then covered a yawn.

"You should go home, Melissa," the sheriff told her gently. "You've had a long day."

Mrs. McCall hesitated, sending a lingering look toward Mitch and then to Laura.

"Melissa," the sheriff prompted, voice soft. "Scott will be at my house with Stiles. Go home. Sleep."

Mrs. McCall immediately looked ashamed, and Laura could scent the guilt in the air.

"Mrs. McCall," Laura spoke up. "It's alright for you to take some time to process all this. Your son will understand, I promise. Just take care of yourself."

Mrs. McCall gave her a grateful smile. "Thank you," she whispered. Mrs. McCall shuffled out of the room, leaving a trail of muted sadness in her wake.

Laura took a seat next to the sheriff, but didn't speak. She just let her eyes fall on the young man sleeping on the hospital bed. His eyes were bruised from the lack of sleep, creating a stark contrast to his pale skin. He looked tired, even as he slept.

"Thank you," the sheriff said quietly. "For looking out for him."

"I should be thanking him," Laura replied, her voice just as soft. She didn't know why they were talking so quietly. Mitch probably wouldn't wake up, even if they started shouting. But somehow, it seemed wrong to be loud. "He saved my life."

"Yeah, he does that," the sheriff said, a proud smile stretching across his face. "He's always saving people. Which is why I'm so grateful when someone returns the favor. He doesn't know it, and he won't admit it, but he needs it."

Laura nodded. They fell into silence again for some time until Laura asked, "Hey, how hard is it to come back from the dead?"

The sheriff chuffed. "It's a lot of paperwork."

"Is it illegal to stay dead?"

* * *

"So, what had you all confused at the vet clinic?"

"Hmm?" Stiles looked up from his meal of nutrient infested hospital food.

It was just him and his dad right now. Laura had left before Stiles had gotten his cast and gone to find her siblings, Melissa was on her own lunch break, and there was no one else to visit him.

"At Deaton's," his dad said. "Scott said they had a plan and you looked like someone had flipped your world upside down."

"Oh," Stiles said, fiddling with his fork and grimacing at the food. "In my time, Scott came up with a plan to defeat Gerard, but he didn't tell anyone else about it, except Deaton, I think. He kinda made a few dick moves pulling it off. It worked, but… smart decisions were not made. But, it seems like him and Derek and Stiles are all in on it together, which is not what happened in my time, and I was just trying to imagine what I did that could've changed that."

"Did you figure out?" Noah asked, leaning back in his chair.

Stiles shrugged. "Maybe, I dunno. It's hard to tell, since I wasn't there. Biggest change, I guess, would be that Derek wouldn't have buried Laura's body outside his house, so you wouldn't have arrested him on suspicion of murder, so Scott wouldn't have been able to play his first lacrosse game. Or maybe he did, but they must've worked something out with Derek. I don't know, but that's the only thing I could think of. Somehow, they must've trusted each other enough that this time Scott felt he could let them both in on his plan. Or maybe, without Gerard threatening Mrs. McCall with the kanima, Scott wasn't quite so terrified for his mom and everyone else, so he made some more rational decisions. It'd be hard to figure it out without sounding really weird. Stiles is already very suspicious of me, I'm sure."

Noah folded his hands and admitted, "We haven't talked yet."

Stiles met his eyes. "About me?"

"Or the supernatural in general," Noah confirmed, sinking into his chair's stiff cushioning. "He's pretty pissed at me."

Stiles laughed a little at that. "In my time, it was you who was pissed at me for all the lying," he told him. "But I don't think you can really pull that one off, all things considered."

"No," Noah agreed. "I don't know how to bring anything up to start the discussion."

Stiles shrugged. "I don't have any advice for you."

"That's alright," Noah said, smiling. "You just take it easy and heal."

Stiles grimaced at the cast encasing his lower leg. "Two months," he groaned.

"You'll survive," Noah said, patting his good leg.

"Anything on the Argent front?" Stiles asked, setting his plastic fork down and giving up on his hospital slush.

Noah shook his head. "They aren't telling me anything. I don't know if that's because they're busy taking care of it, or if none of them trust me. I'll let you know as soon as I know."

"Gerard's been taken care of," said a new voice.

Stiles and Noah turned to face the new voice. It was the younger Stiles.

"Stiles," Noah said, out of his chair as soon as he got a good look at his son's face. "What happened? Who did this to you?"

"I'm fine, Dad," young Stiles said, brushing him off and pushing past him. A purple bruise was flowering on his cheek, and his lip was split and scabbed over.

"Get those from an Argent?" Stiles asked casually, though he was pretty sure it was Gerard.

"None of your business," the younger version of him snapped. "Now talk."

Stiles was past the point of bristling teenage rebellion, but he'd never been okay with people bossing him around. And he definitely wasn't okay with himself bossing him around, so he automatically reverted to being difficult. He pushed away his lunch tray and talked. "I want real food. Honestly, this is shit. It's terrible. Not good for my mental well-being. Where is the comfort food? Food that heals the heart? I want a burger, or pizza."

"You can't live off diner food and take out," Noah chided.

"I'm a hunter, Dad, that's practically our creed," Stiles deadpanned.

"You're a hunter?"

Stiles shrugged. "Among other things."

"That's not an answer," the younger him retorted with a withering look.

"Alright, settle down, Stiles," Noah said. "Pull up a chair. And Mitch, play nice."

Stiles responded with a wide-eyed, innocent look that his father would never ever fall for while the younger Stiles grabbed a stool and dragged it over. When the teenager had settled, sitting stiffly and glaring, Stiles ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, wondering how to start.

"Alright, how much do you already know?" Stiles asked.

His younger self scowled. "No one will tell me anything," he hissed.

Stiles rolled his eyes to show just how much he bought that diversion. "I'm sure, I just wanted to know if you'd read the police report already."

The look Stiles received was mutinous, but after a moment he said. "Yeah, I read it."

Their dad sighed heavily at the implication that Stiles had broken into the police database. "Stiles," he scolded.

The teenager gave him an unrepentant shrug.

"So what did you want from us?" Stiles shifted until he was sitting up a bit more, because this wasn't a conversation to be relaxed for. "Did you want to check and see if the story we told you matched the one you read in a 5 year-old police report? Catch us in a lie?"

"Maybe I just wanted to hear it from you," the teenager said defensively. "Not every detail is in a police report."

Noah stood up and came to stand halfway between the bed and the stool. "Alright, here's what happened, Stiles, and I swear it's the truth. Mitch showed up at your mom's funeral five years ago, looking like a fugitive or a victim of abuse. I told him to come by the station so I could help him. When he came, I saw the resemblance between him and Claudia. He knew Claudia was his mother, but we weren't sure who the father was, so we decided to get a paternity test. Melissa ran it, which is how she knew about Mitch. It was confirmed, and that's the first I knew about him, I swear."

"And you expect me to believe that you and Mom would've, what, had a scandalous one night stand?" the young Stiles said doubtfully.

Noah shrugged uncomfortably. "It's not exactly something you spread around, Stiles."

The teenager huffed at that. "Okay, so you met again and started dating." He turned to his older counterpart. "Where were you? Why didn't Mom say anything about you?"

He got two identical shrugs in response.

"I couldn't say," Stiles said, hesitating as he formed a half-truth on his tongue. "I never… I never met her."

"So you have no idea what happened between you being born and Mom and Dad meeting again?" the young Stiles challenged.

"We can't exactly ask her," Stiles pointed out harshly.

"Well, where did you grow up, who raised you?" the teenager questioned. "Can't you ask them?"

Stiles responded with another half-truth. "I'd rather not speak to them ever again."

"Why not?" the younger him demanded.

"Trust me, going to speak to them is a bad idea," Stiles said, partially honest once more. "And I don't want to deal with all the shit that would go down if any of us did."

"Who were they?" the teenager demanded again.

"I'm not answering that," Stiles refused. "Next question."

The teenage Stiles set his jaw, anger clear. "Fine. Why did you come to Beacon Hills?"

"I was looking for family," Stiles answered shortly.

"How did you know to come here?" the younger Stiles pressed.

"I knew my mother's name," Stiles replied. "I was looking for her, hoping she was… I dunno, I was just hoping there was something here."

The teenager pursued his lips and clenched the hands on his lap into fists. "Why'd you tell my dad and not me?"

"I told Dad because I didn't know what else to do," Stiles said honestly. "I almost didn't tell him, or anyone for that matter."

Scrutinizing him with an unkind look in his dark eyes, the young Stiles shifted in his seat and continued his interrogation. "Why'd you leave Beacon Hills after you found your family?"

"Wasn't interested in staying," Stiles answered. "I'd been in one spot almost my whole life. I wanted to move, to learn more about myself and what I could do. I wasn't going to do that here."

"But why didn't you tell me ?" the teenager pushed, frustration seeping into his voice. "You've clearly kept in contact with Dad, why wouldn't you want to meet your- your ownbrother ."

Stiles really should've come with an answer to that sometime in the last five years. What did he say? That he hadn't wanted to? Didn't care? That it hadn't been important to him? He pressed his lips into a thin, white line before answering, "I didn't see the point."

"Didn't see the point?" the teenager hissed. "Really?"

Stiles couldn't help glaring back at this frail, buzz cut, pale, oh-so-young version of himself that he remembered so well. He recalled being a naive idiot, but he didn't like remembering. "A lot of shit had just happened to me, alright? I'd just lost everyone I ever cared about. I wasn't interested in being anybody's big brother."

"Well my mom had just died," the young Stiles said, sneering. "But you didn't give a shit about anyone else, did you?"

"Guess not," Stiles shot back acidly.

Noah stepped forward to cut them off, but before he could get a word in, his younger son turned on him.

"And why didn't you tell me anyway?"

"Stiles," he said gently. "Like you said, you'd just lost your mom. I wasn't going to tell you about a brother that wasn't ready to talk to you."

"Great, so you spared my feelings from my asshole brother," the young Stiles said, crossing his arms. "And at what point in the last five years, exactly, did you decide I just didn't need to know?"

"Stiles…" Noah said, but didn't seem to know what to say to that.

The teenager waited a moment for any sort of response, but when none was forthcoming, he scoffed and shoved off the stool. "Unbelievable."

"Stiles," Noah tried again, but his son shook his head, scowling.

"No," he fixed his scowl on Stiles. "I don't trust you."

"I can see that," Stiles said drolly.

It was hard to tell if that comment made him angrier or not, but the younger him just stormed out of the room without another word.

Not three seconds later, Laura Hale appeared in the doorway, in the process of shoving a couple of curly fries into her mouth.

"How long you been here?" Stiles asked, sinking back into his pillows and eyeing the paper bag in her hand.

"Followed him here," Laura replied, fishing more fries out of the bag. "Got here a few minutes later than he did because I made a pit stop."

"I guess you heard most of that then?" Noah guessed.

"Yeah most of it. But more importantly, I brought you a burger." Laura strode over and pushed aside the tray of hospital food. "Scooch."

Stiles immediately shimmied over so that Laura could hop up onto the bed beside him, snatching the bag from her hands and poking his nose in. "You're my hero," he said, fluttering his lashes at her for a moment before grabbing the burger and unwrapping it.

Laura laughed, then sent a grin to the sheriff, who was shaking his head, but saying nothing.

"So the Argents are taken care of then?" Noah asked.

"Yeah, my baby brother's stupid plan worked, mostly," Laura said, letting one leg dangle off the edge of the slim hospital bed, but pressing the line of her body from heel to shoulder against Stiles on her other side.

"Well, that's a relief, I guess." Noah checked his watch. "Any other upcoming disasters?"

"Not that I know of," Laura replied, snagging more curly fries out of the paper bag.

Stiles shook his head. "No, I'm hoping it'll stay quiet for the summer."

His dad nodded. "Alright, I have to go back to the station. I'll see you when I get off, alright?"

Stiles nodded, mouth full of burger, and Laura waved at him as he left.

"So, my uncle is back to life," Laura informed him with a grimace, stuffing more fries in her mouth.

"The throat-slicing alpha uncle, I'm assuming," Stiles said, grimacing as well. He'd forgotten that Peter Hale was resurrected around this time.

"Yeah, that one," Laura confirmed. "But he's not an alpha anymore, because Derek killed him. So I guess it's sort of like what happened to me. Peter killed me, and you brought me back so now I'm just a beta again, and it's the same for him. His eyes are blue."

Stiles glanced at her, a thought occurring to him that he'd never considered. "They weren't before?"

Laura shook her head. "No, they weren't. I guess it make sense, considering he killed me, then a whole bunch of other people. He killed with purpose, but that doesn't mean they deserved it."

Stiles took another bite of his burger. "How are you doing with Derek being the alpha now?"

Laura wrinkled her nose. "It's really weird. A lot has happened to him in the last 8 months. He's grown, I guess. He thought I was dead, so he's tried to step up. But now I'm here again and he doesn't know whether to treat me like an alpha again or act like he's the alpha because he's got three betas. Five if you count Jackson and Scott."

"And then you don't know if you should act like the alpha or step back and let him handle things," Stiles finished for her.

"Yeah." Laura sighed. "It's weird. We're just trying to figure it out and… I don't know."

"And Cora?" Stiles asked, finishing off the burger.

"Settling," Laura replied. "Just glad that she's got family. We'll see how long her good humor lasts. Right now, we're happy to sort of have a pack again, but I'm sure we'll all be butting heads again soon."

Stiles hummed in agreement, because dysfunctional seemed to be the name of the game at the moment.

"Jackson seems to be doing alright though, and Derek's betas are tense but better," Laura told him. "I don't know about Scott's mom, but Mrs. McCall seems tough, I'm sure she'll come around. The least crazy Argent is taking his daughter and leaving for France. I don't think your little brother can decide if he likes me though."

"Why's that?" Stiles asked, shaking off the strange feeling of his younger self being referred to as his brother.

"I think he likes me objectively," Laura mused, handing him the last two fries, then crumbling up the trash into a ball. "But also, I like you and defend you, so that's gotten me major negative points."

Stiles snorted. "Yeah, he definitely doesn't like me."

Laura tossed the ball of paper onto one of the chairs. "And you? What's the final say on the leg?"

The corner's of Stiles' mouth turned down at the mention of his cast. "Eight weeks. I'm not sure I'm gonna make it."

"Dramatic." Laura chuckled. "Does it hurt?"

"A little," Stiles found himself admitting.

Laura moved her arm so that she could wrap her fingers loosely around his arm. Black veins began snaking their way up her hand. "Rest," Laura said. "After everything you've done, I think you deserve it."

Her werewolf heat combined with the warm, heady feeling of her taking his pain was making him sleepy, so Stiles didn't argue. He slumped against the pillows, and before he knew it, he was deeply asleep on Laura's shoulder.

* * *

Jackson wasn't quite sure what made him show up at Mitch Stilinski's hospital room after the last day of school. Well, that's not true. He knew, but didn't feel like acknowledging it, even to himself, so he pretended he didn't know. When he reached the room, he cautiously knocked and slid into the room.

Mitch was sound asleep against Laura Hale, who had one hand wrapped around his arm and the other gripping her phone.

"Hey, Jackson," Laura greeted, setting her phone on her lap. "What brings you here?"

Jackson held up Mitch's army jacket. "Just giving this back."

Laura nodded. "You can leave it anywhere. I'm sure Mitch'll be glad to have it back."

Jackson set the jacket on one of the chairs, and looked back at Laura and Mitch. He wasn't quite sure what to make of Laura Hale. She didn't treat him like anybody else did, either sucking up or hating him. She hadn't taken any of his bullshit over the last couple of days, just like Mitch hadn't for the few hours he'd spent teaching him control after he'd helped him overcome the kanima part of him. But despite that she didn't seem to hate him either. Mitch was the same, for that matter, and Jackson found himself-dare he even think it-liking them.

The black lines twitching up Laura's arm caught Jackson's attention, and he motioned toward them. "What is that?"

"I'm taking his pain," Laura explained, fingers tightening around Mitch's pale arm for a moment before loosening again.

"Is he in a lot of pain?" Jackson asked, eyes drifting to the huge plaster cast around Mitch's leg.

"Sort of." Laura glanced down at Mitch's relaxed face where his cheek was pressed into her shoulder. "He's on some painkillers, so that helps. But he's not comfortable."

Jackson nodded, wondering if he'd be able to do something like that-taking someone's pain from them. It seemed sickeningly heroic, and maybe a bit too emotional for him.

"Did you want to talk to him about something?" Laura asked, her kind voice implying that he could absolutely talk to her about it if he wanted.

Jackson hesitated a moment, because he wasn't a talker, and he didn't like talking to anyone about feelings. But Lydia had given him a stern lecture about what becoming the kanima had meant. He figured now was the time to start turning over a new leaf. At least with some people. There was no way he'd start talking about feelings with anybody, like Derek, or the other werewolves. Especially not McCall. But Laura Hale was different. So was Mitch Stilinski. So he said, "My dad wants to send me to London to finish school. Get me away from Beacon Hills after everything that's happened."

Laura stared at him for a minute with piercing, dark green eyes. "Do you want to go?"

Jackson shrugged. "I guess. I just…"

Laura watched him for a moment. "The wolf part of you will be looking for a pack."

"I don't want to be part of Derek's pack," Jackson said immediately. That, at least, he was sure of.

"I don't think you'll find one in London either," Laura told him. "A strange blue-eyed American werewolf isn't going to be well received."

Jackson shrugged again. "I don't think I'd really go looking for a pack."

"But," Laura said, smiling a little at him and glancing at Mitch. "You wouldn't mind being pack with this idiot, would you?"

Jackson dropped his gaze, embarrassed. That was the part he wasn't really admitting to himself at the moment-that after only a few hours of knowing him, Jackson felt like he could look up to Mitch like a brother, like family, like pack. Thankfully, Laura didn't badger him about it, and he thought he wouldn't mind being in the same pack as her either.

"Look, Jackson," Laura said, pulling his gaze back up with the firmness of her tone. "No one can make this decision for you, except for maybe your dad if he forces you. But if you decide you want to stay, to stick it out and give Beacon Hills a chance, Mitch won't turn you away."

"You sure?" Jackson asked, trying to sound careless and not at all insecure.

"Pretty sure," Laura said. "And I'll help you any way I can too. I'm trying to find my place here too, with everything so different from the way I left it. You could always stay for a month or two, then go to London if things aren't panning out like you want here. Next school year doesn't start for a little while, right?"

Jackson nodded. He liked how reasonable that sounded. And that he wouldn't have to make a definite decision yet.

"Who knows, maybe you'll talk to Mitch and he'll recommend another place for you to go," Laura said. "He's been a lot of places. Knows a lot of people."

"You said something about that the other night," Jackson said, curiosity rising. "He famous or something?"

"Or something." Laura gave him an amused smile. "Wanna hear about it?"

Jackson nodded and sat down. He wasn't in any rush.

* * *

 **Thanks for all the reviews and support! They're much appreciated.**


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles wasn't stupid.

He was infinitely familiar with the after-effects of his past life and his current lifestyle.

 _Malia, sprawled on the concrete, leaking black blood from the bullet holes riddling her body._

Sleeping, or even resting, peacefully was out of the question. But, maybe a bit naively, Stiles thought he'd been getting pretty good at handling it. He'd spent five years perfecting the art of exhausting himself to the point of passing out into a nearly dreamless sleep, then waking up before his brain had the chance to cook up a terrifying nightmare. That and keeping himself on guard at all times tended to keep his mind alert, with no time to dwell on the past.

 _Derek, blood gushing from his leg where his foot should've been._

Despite the enforced bed rest at the hospital, Stiles had enough bad memories from that place to be subconsciously on guard the whole week they kept him there. He should've known that things would be different here.

 _Cora, vomiting black blood and mistletoe, choking and gasping._

Stiles slumped against the side of the Stilinski house, fingers gripping his hair, trying to get his breathing under control. He hadn't had a panic attack in years—not since he'd landed in the past. He hadn't had a nightmare bad enough to induce one in a while either.

 _Corey, his insides strewn across the mud, face torn to shreds._

Pulling in each breath, holding it a moment, and letting it out, Stiles struggled to banish the memories dancing at the edges of his awareness. Even as the terror receded and his tunnel vision settled, the play-by-play he'd just experienced flickered through his mind, bouncing from one side of his skull to the other.

 _Scott, crawling through broken glass, wide eyes red with rage and fear, reaching out for her._

Stiles swallowed a noise of distress.

 _Hayden, her separated head rolling to rest against his knees._

Someone was trying to get his attention, but Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block out the images. He needed another minute before he could communicate.

 _Lydia, screaming, hands clamped over her ears, blood dripping from her nose and tears from her eyes._

A warm body pressed against his side, no longer trying to pull him out of his state, and Stiles gratefully went back to focusing on his breathing. He could do this. He just needed to shove these memories back into the box they escaped from last night.

 _Nathan, curly hair matted to his forehead with blood, eyes glazed, vacant, unblinking._

Stiles tentatively opened his eyes, seeing but not seeing the damp grass carpeting the ground in front of him; feeling but not registering the cool breeze brushing against his skin.

 _Liam, impaled on a long blade, his signature fury flickering in his gold eyes, skin pale._

Grunting, Stiles took one more calm breath and released his hair, settling his trembling arms on his knees. He looked to his side and gave his dad one of the most unbelievable 'I'm fine' smiles he'd ever mustered.

Noah's eyebrows knit together in worry. "I thought you were doing better, son."

"I am," Stiles insisted. He almost said, 'I just let my guard down here because it reminds me of home before my life went to shit, and I felt safe,' but that would clue his dad into his coping habits, and he doubted the sheriff would approve. "It's just been a lot."

Noah sighed, resigned, and pressed their shoulders together. "I did think you were handling this a little too well. You seemed fine seeing everyone again. Should've guessed."

Stiles pressed his lips together, feeling a little guilty, but in no way willing to expound upon what had been going through his head when he was seeing everyone again.

"I was surprised you were so good with Jackson too," Noah added. "You, Stiles I mean, seems to hate him right now."

Stiles swallowed the 'I didn't see him die so…' which preceded the image of Lydia's scream as she clung to him, crying and grieving for Jackson. The werewolf-kanima had, at some point during those last few years become something of a friend to Stiles, even if they'd kept up their sniping. Blinking away those thoughts, Stiles replied, "I am fine seeing everyone, and I am better. This just happens every once and a while. Promise."

His dad scrutinized him, trying to decide how much of what he'd said was the truth and how much was absolute bullshit. The look was so achingly familiar, but Stiles hadn't seen it in a long time. But he was out of practice dealing with it. Or at least, that's what he told himself when he ducked away from that look and focused on his hands. They were still quaking.

With a heavy sigh, Noah relented. "Alright. I don't think I believe you, but alright. If you ever need… if you ever need anything, let me help, okay?"

Stiles nodded mutely and blinked at the stinging moisture in his eyes.

His dad reached over and squeezed his arm. "Any upcoming disasters you need to prepare for?"

Stiles drew in a shaky breath and felt himself settle a little. "Nothing imminent, I don't think? I don't know, I've been a little off-kilter these past few weeks," he answered.

"Then you should rest," Noah said. "Take some time to get yourself back up to fighting fit."

Or exhaust himself trying to figure out what to do about the darach and the nemeton and the alpha pack so that he didn't have a repeat performance of last night. But yeah, totally, rest.

"And, maybe you could try to work things out with Stiles," Noah added.

Stiles grimaced.

"I know this is weird for you in a lot of ways," Noah went on. "But if you still won't tell him about where you're really from and who you really are, then maybe you could try treating him like a brother."

Chewing the inside of his lip, Stiles hesitated, then nodded a little.

"Because, let's be perfectly honest, you were a complete jackass to him."

"Yeah, I know," Stiles agreed, tipping his head back to rest against the cool siding of the house.

"It's a little unfair to treat him like a sideshow, don't you think?" Noah carried on. "Telling him you didn't see the point of him was harsh to say the least."

Stiles cringed. If this is how his dad's always going to scold him now that he's older, then he'd rather go back to being grounded. "That's not what I meant," Stiles defended weakly.

"Well that's how he took it," Noah said. "It took me three days and a lot of curly fries just to get him to let me apologize for my part in all this."

"He was probably just extorting you for curly fries," Stiles muttered.

His dad gave him a hard look.

Stiles ducked his head, reticent. "Sorry. But trust me, he hates being at odds with you."

"I don't like being at odds with him either," Noah said. "Or you, son. Are you sure you can't just tell him?"

Stomach flipping, Stiles winced at the thought of how that would turn out. He shook his head.

"Okay," Noah held up his hand in surrender. "I'd say at least try to be civil, but I think you can do better than that. You can figure things out with him, Mitch. Just try not to let your memories of yourself cloud your judgement around him."

Stiles scrubbed his hands over his face. "Don't pull your punches, Dad," he grumbled.

"Everyone's their own worst critic," Noah said, patting him on the shoulder. "But why don't you let him be his critic, and you stick with being your own. You're already too hard on yourself, no need to double it."

"I…" Stiles glanced at his dad, brain short-circuiting as he tried to wrap his mind around the double-meanings and connotations of that piece of advice.

"I might've just confused myself," Noah admitted. "But I'm pretty sure I said what I meant to."

Stiles snorted. "Any other reprimands you want to deal out?"

"I could start in on the I-told-you-so's," Noah offered, nudging Stiles' cast with his bare toes.

The tension eased, and Stiles smiled a real smile. "No thanks, but I appreciate the offer."

Noah grinned and climbed to his feet. "Come on, I can still make a mean stack of waffles, and I'm sure you could use the food."

Stiles took his dad's proffered hand and heaved himself up on his one good leg. He took the crutches his dad had leant against the side of the house and tucked one under each arm.

"Okay?" Noah asked.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good," Stiles said, gripping the handles.

"I'm sure Melissa's going to be thrilled to hear you stumbled out here without those," Noah said, shaking his head.

"But we don't have to tell her… right?" Stiles said, giving his dad his best pleading look.

"We don't have to," Noah agreed, smiling. "But we will."

Stiles groaned, and Noah laughed. They made their way around to the porch steps together, but Stiles stopped before the first stair.

"Actually, Dad, could you give me a minute?" Stiles motioned toward his, truck, parked in the driveway beside his dad's cruiser. "I want to check on a few things."

His dad nodded. "Holler if you need anything."

Stiles gave him a thumbs-up. "Will do."

Noah went inside, and Stiles hobbled over to his truck. It took a little maneuvering, but Stiles managed to clamber into the driver's seat. For a minute he just sat, soaking in the familiarity of sitting behind this steering wheel as Mitch Stilinski, a nobody until he made a name for himself as a hunter and a druid, and as someone who could get the job done. He stuffed the vestiges of the Stiles who had lost so much into the back of his mind. Undoubtedly an unhealthy coping mechanism, but it'd been working for him for years, so Stiles wasn't about to change things now. He was ignoring it until it went away, and there was no stopping him.

Shaking himself out of his state, Stiles glanced around for the burner phone he'd last used. It was sitting on the floor next to his right foot. He grabbed it and tried to turn it on. It was dead, but that wasn't a surprise. It'd been running on empty when he'd used it to call his dad a week ago.

A sudden twinge in his wrist startled him and Stiles jerked upright a little before remembering. He'd set up an alarm spell on his truck to warn him of people around him when he was distracted. The spell wasn't one of his better ones and only worked half the time, but right now it wasn't intermittently sending a light twinge to the little tattooed rune on the inside of his wrist like it was supposed to do. Stiles made a mental reminder to ask Deaton to help him fix it up.

But even if it wasn't perfect, the spell had never acted like this—a harsh spasm under the skin of the tattoo. So he was pretty sure the spell was confused and he could make a good guess as to why. Two persons of almost identical aura were probably not covered under its parameters. Or maybe there aura was completely identical? He'd have to find out at some point. Especially if he ended up working with his younger self. Which was just… strange in so many ways.

What wasn't these days though?

* * *

Stiles had stayed with Scott last night. His dad and Laura had been bringing so-called brother home, and Stiles had just wanted to spend time with his _real_ brother. So, in the absence of imminent supernatural threat, Scott and Stiles had played video games through the night and into the morning. Stiles had been way too wired to sleep, and Scott had convinced him to go home. Scott drove them, and Stiles had him drop him off a few blocks away so he could take a short walk to clear his head.

The crisp morning air calmed him a bit as he trudged the rest of the way to his house. His dad had apologized already, even if he hadn't explained much more. But his dad was seriously the best, and even if he'd kept things from him, he made sure Stiles still knew he was loved.

" _Stiles, I… I really just want you to know that I love you and no one's ever going to replace you, alright? It's important you know that. So you think you can forgive your old man for not handling this all very well?"_

Of course Stiles forgave him. Plus, he got a lot of curly fries to go along with that apology so that was a definite bonus. It helped that Dad had promised to give Mitch a dressing-down for being an asshole to him. So at least this wasn't some fairytale situation where Stiles was Cinderella, Mitch was his evil step-sister, and Dad was the evil step-mother who favored—Stiles cut off that train of thought before it could get any weirder and kicked some loosed stones on the sidewalk.

Stiles slowed as he came up the sidewalk towards his house. The light blue truck parked next to his dad's cruiser had its driver's side door open, a set of crutches leaning against the jamb.

Fingers gripping the strap of his backpack, Stiles crept quietly up the other side of the truck. He was pretty sure certain people with broken bones were supposed to be resting in bed right now. Carefully, Stiles sidled up the passenger side of the truck, listening intently. He halted just before the cab, trying to peer through the dark windows.

"Hey, kiddo, quit lurking!"

Stiles jumped, maybe even squeaked a little, at the shout.

"I'd dramatically open the passenger door for you, but it's a little out of my reach at the moment," the voice called from inside the truck.

Stiles scowled, and hesitated a moment, but he was found out. He stepped up and grabbed the passenger door handle. The hinges protested loudly as he pulled it open. "Don't call me kiddo," he grumbled, glaring at the face of the Stilinski resident invalid. "And how'd you know I was there? You're not a werewolf."

"Magic," Mitch said, wiggling his fingers.

Stiles rolled his eyes; then raised his eyebrows when Mitch patted the bench next to him.

"Come on, you've already poked through here, I'm sure," he said knowingly. "May as well skip the skulking around."

Frustrated that Mitch seemed to know him so well already, Stiles crossed his arms and ignored the invitation. "I don't skulk. Peter skulks. Even Derek skulks sometimes. But I don't skulk."

Mitch looked at him like he was swallowing several choice comments in response. "Look, if you think I'm going to murder you or something, this would hardly be the place to do it. Way too suspicious. So you can either go away, or get in."

Wow, Dad's talk had clearly gone a long way. Stiles inwardly scoffed and wondered if this was what it was really like to have an older sibling. But Stiles wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to find out more about Mitch. He had to figure this guy out. Stiles dropped his backpack onto the ground and jumped up into the cab, but made it a point to leave the door wide open.

Mitch didn't say anything immediately, but looked through the back window at the driveway. "How'd you get here? Dad said your jeep was in the shop."

Stiles clenched his jaw a moment. It was so strange hearing someone else call _his_ dad their dad. He took in a deep breath and replied shortly, "Scott dropped me off a few blocks away."

Mitch nodded and Stiles could tell he was chewing the inside of his lip while he considered him. Lifting his chin, Stiles stared defiantly right back. After a moment, Mitch turned away from him and dropped his gaze to the phone in his hands. Stiles recognized it as the burner he'd heard all those messages on. He couldn't help but watch eagerly as Mitch rubbed his thumb and the pads of his forefinger and middle finger together like he was testing the texture of something. Strangely, the motion made Stiles think of trying to start a fire.

Mitch pressed his long fingers to the back of the phone and it obligingly came to life beneath his touch. A hum of satisfaction vibrated in Mitch's throat as he reached under the seat and snatched out his book of contacts. He quickly located the number he needed and calling it, dialling it and putting the phone up to his ear. As the cellphone began to ring, Mitch's eyes darted back towards Stiles, who made it a point to eye him suspiciously. Stiles was surprised when, after a moment's deliberation, Mitch lowered the phone and put it on speaker.

" _Hello?"_

Mitch smiled a bit at the voice. "Singer," he greeted. "It's Mitch Stilinski. I thought I'd make a courtesy call."

Stiles almost laughed. When he'd seen that name in Mitch's contacts, he'd assumed, like the others, 'singer' had been a descriptive term. An actual singer. But no, it was a name, and it sounded like the name of an old guy who probably did not sing very well at all.

" _About damn time, son,"_ Singer grunted. " _Chism called me almost two weeks ago to let me know you'd picked up your truck."_

"I was in a bit of hurry," Mitch said a little defensively. "Wisconsin is not close to California, and lives were at stake."

Wisconsin? Stiles wondered. What would he be doing there?

" _Wanna tell me where you disappeared to for, what, nine months?"_ Singer questioned.

 _I'd like to know that too,_ Stiles mentally agreed.

"It's a long story involving faeries and alternate dimensions that I don't really want to get into," Mitch said dismissively, and Stiles kept in the fountain of questions he wanted to ask at that.

"But I spent the last week in the hospital," Mitch continued. "I'm going to be mostly out of commission for another few weeks."

" _You've got a place to lay up?"_

"I'm with my dad. I'll be fine," Mitch assured him. "But thanks. And thanks for helping me out. I don't know what I would've done without your help, so I owe you one, Singer."

" _No problem, kid,"_ Singer said. " _Rest up. And keep yourself safe. Dangerous stuff coming out of the woodwork."_

"Isn't there always," Mitch sighed.

Singer laughed, a tinge bitter. " _Got that right. Keep in touch, Stilinski."_ And he hung up.

"Always a pleasure," Mitch murmured at the silent phone. His tone was a little sarcastic, but Stiles thought he really meant it. Mitch stuffed the phone deep into the pocket of his sweats, looking over at Stiles.

Stiles resisted the urge to squirm. He felt like Mitch was picking apart his thought process; like he could read him as easily as a flashing neon sign. Then Mitch was turning away. He twisted around in his seat, reaching over the bench to root around in the backseat.

"Hunter friend?" Stiles asked, since it seemed Mitch wasn't going to elaborate on anything.

"Good ally," Mitch corrected, frowning into the backseat.

"So, you've really hunted down and killed supernatural creatures?" Stiles questioned, going for casual but totally missing the mark, judging by the look Mitch gave him.

"Only the ones that are hurting innocent people," Mitch said seriously, then turned thoughtful. "I've done more ghosts and spirits than creatures though."

It took a second for that to sink in. "Ghosts are real?" Stiles asked, incredulous.

"Yep," Mitch confirmed, pushing himself up a little for more reach and dragging a battered brown backpack out from under the seat. "Among other things."

"So you're a ghost buster?!" Stiles demanded.

Mitch whipped around to look at him before bursting out in startled laughter. Stiles was a little surprised too. He hadn't expected that reaction, but he hadn't expected him to say ghosts were real either, so maybe they were both a little off-footed.

"I work for free, Junior," Mitch said, still smiling. "But yeah, I guess I am sort of a ghost buster."

"Don't call me 'Junior,' either!" Stiles exclaimed, aghast.

Mitch chuckled and turned back to the backseat to shove several books into the backpack.

Stiles got ahold of himself and got back on track. "Why did Deaton and Derek know who you are and trust you if you're a hunter?" he asked.

Mitch zipped up the backpack and dragged it over the back of the seat, settling it on the bench between them. "I'm really known more in druid circles and werewolf packs as, like, a, sort of temporary emissary, I guess? I help people—werewolves mostly—all over the country. I stick to the States, and I just travel. I've met a lot of people, a lot of packs, and if there's a problem I offer to help fix it, that's all."

Stiles scrunched up his face as he thought about that. "So, you're like, a supernatural fixer too?"

Mitch snorted. "I'm pretty sure that's got a negative connotation to it, but yeah, kinda."

Mitch didn't expand on that, and Stiles subsided a moment, trying to decide if it was worth it to ask his next question. His dad had stonewalled him on it. _Ah, screw it,_ he decided.

"You gonna tell me where you were before you met Dad?"

Mitch didn't answer immediately, but the minute grimace told Stiles the answer before he spoke. "Not now. Maybe one day, but I'd rather not tell that story."

"Okay," Stiles huffed. At least it was more polite than when he'd first asked. "Are you gonna tell me the real reason you've been avoiding Beacon Hills and everyone in it except Dad for 5 years?"

Mitch winced, compulsively running his hand through his long dark hair. "I don't really have a straightforward answer for that."

Stiles crossed his arms and scowled. "Does dad know?"

Mitch gave him a look like he should already know the answer to that, and Stiles scowled. Of course he did.

"Don't be mad at Dad," Mitch said. "I asked him to say anything about it."

"So he knows everything," Stiles concluded.

Mitch pressed his lips together. "Yeah, he does. And he's the only one who knows everything. I'd like to keep it that way because there's a lot of things about my past that'd I'd like to leave in the past, alright?"

"I hope you know, this isn't helping me trust you any," Stiles told him.

With a heavy sigh, Mitch turned in his seat, careful of his cast, so he could face Stiles fully. "I know you don't trust me. To be honest, if I was in your position, I wouldn't trust me either… and if… if you're anything like me, I wouldn't know how to get you to trust me, because I always go with my gut when it tells me something weird is going on."

Stiles shifted a little uneasily at the accuracy of that statement and mimicked Mitch's position so he could face Mitch head on.

"So yeah, I'm holding back a lot," Mitch admitted. "And with me, there's pretty much always something weird going on. My life's been nothing but weird for a very long time. But I hope you can learn to trust that I'm here to help, alright? Dad means a lot to me, and while I don't have a lot of attachment to Beacon Hills, I think the people here are worth protecting."

"How very heroic," Stiles said dryly.

Mitch scoffed at that. "I'm not a hero. Full disclosure, my methods aren't always clean. But I'm doing my best."

"So, what, you're going to save kittens and help little old ladies across the streets until I believe that you're a good person deep down?" Stiles asked dubiously.

Mitch looked meaningfully at his cast. "At this point, helping little old ladies across the street might be like the blind leading the blind. And I don't think I'm in a position to rescue kittnes. But this," —he tapped the thick plaster— "means that I have to stick around for a while. Can't do much laid up like this. So I'll be around. I think we should make a deal."

"A deal?" Stiles echoed, confused.

"Yeah," Mitch said confidently. "I know a lot. I've got a lot of experience dealing with the supernatural. So I'll answer any and all questions that don't have to do with my past. I won't withhold any information from you unless it's absolutely necessary. Deal?"

"What do you get in return?" Stiles asked, leaning against the seat and drumming his fingers on his jeans.

"You give me a chance," Mitch replied. "You don't have to accept me as your brother, or family, or even a friend. Just give me a chance to prove to you, and Scott and Derek and everyone else, that you can trust me and I can help. What do you say?"

"And who decides if it's absolutely necessary to withhold information?" Stiles questioned.

Mitch shrugged. "Me. But I'll consult Dad if you feel like a second opinion needs to be involved."

Stiles considered. He still didn't trust Mitch, but over the last week Lydia had talked him down from his most ridiculous theories. Something still didn't sit right, but maybe someone could be not-right but still helpful? Stiles chewed this inside of his lip. He'd definitely be keeping an eye on him, but being able to ask anything and get an answer was good. Maybe Scott and Derek could help him determine if Mitch was being truthful. He could double-check things with Deaton. The more Mitch was willing to say, the more he was liable to make a mistake with whatever he was hiding. "I'm not giving you the benefit of the doubt," Stiles said at last. "But I'll… I'll be open-minded."

"Fair enough," Mitch said, offering his hand.

Stiles shook it. "It's a deal."

"Okay, come on," Mitch said, grabbing the backpack and scooting towards his door. "Dad's making waffles."

Stiles snatched the backpack from Mitch before he could pull it onto his shoulder and shimmied out of the truck, ignoring Mitch's surprised look. "You're a gimp right now," Stiles explained, grabbing his own backpack from the ground. "Dad'll kill me if I let you carry the load. Mrs. McCall too."

Mitch laughed. "Or maybe I'm just growing on you, baby brother," Mitch said.

Stiles glared at the back of Mitch's head through the cab as the older man grabbed his crutches and eased himself out of the truck. "Would you quit with the stupid nicknames? Just use my name."

Mitch got his balance on his crutches and shot him a grin. "Okay, _Mieczyslaw_."

Stiles yelped and slammed the passenger door shut. "NO!"

* * *

Noah was increasingly concerned that Mitch's return to Beacon Hills, and everything surrounding it, had sent his son backsliding in regards to his mental health.

Soft morning light was filtering through the windows, illuminating Mitch's tired face and casting dim shadows that made the dark circles under his eyes look worse. He'd fallen asleep with a heavy book in his lap that was written in another language. He had a notebook tucked between him and the couch, a pen resting in his loose fingers. A stack of books and a few loose sheafs of paper were scattered on the coffee table.

With a sigh Noah took off his shoes and removed his jacket. He set his coat on the armchair as he headed for his older son. He gently removed the books, grabbed a blanket, and spread it over Mitch.

Noah brushed a hand through the dark head of hair. "'I'm better' my ass," he told Mitch. "We are talking about this later, after we've both had some sleep."

He went to the kitchen to get a glass of water and Mitch's pain medication. He set both on the coffee table, and with one last rueful look at the sleeping figure on the couch, he headed upstairs. It'd been a long night.

After a few hours of sleep, Noah roused himself and came downstairs to a very different picture. Mitch was still on the couch, but he had a plate of eaten food on the table and he was sitting up with a cup of coffee in one hand and a pen in the other. One book laid open in his lap and his notebook sat next to him on the couch.

Sitting in the armchair, Stiles was still in his pajamas and had a spiral-bound notebook with a list on it. An uneaten portion of scrambled eggs rested in his lap and a glass of orange juice sat on little table beside the chair, in danger of being elbow if Stiles got too enthusiastic.

On the floor by Stiles' feet Scott sat cross-legged, socked feet tucked under his shins. He had a heavy-laden plate of eggs, bacon, and biscuit. He looked a little put-upon, but he dutifully drank his juice and did whatever it is Stiles had roped him into doing.

"How'd you know Jackson was the kanima?" Stiles asked, reading from the list.

"I saw him," Mitch responded blithely, scribbling something in the notebook next to him.

"Okay, but how'd you know what he _was_?" Stiles persisted.

"Dealt with a kanima before," Mitch answered, flipping a page in his book.

"And how'd you know how to fix him?"Stiles questioned.

"Dealt with a kanima before," Mitch repeated. His eyes darted back and forth across the page until he paused and made another notation.

Stiles made a frustrated noise. "Vague and unhelpful," he complained.

Noah leaned against the wall and watched as Mitch looked up.

"What? Oh, right." Mitch straightened a little. "Kanimas are basically werewolves with an identity crisis—or any shifter with an identity crisis, I guess—that goes so deep it changes your perception of yourself. The trick is to have a moment of epiphany. It takes a long time usually, but you guys had been working on him up to that point, so really I just finished everything off." Satisfied he'd given a sufficient answer, Mitch returned to his book.

Stiles considered, then poked Scott in the shoulder.

Scott looked up, mouth full of eggs, and nodded.

Stiles looked back at his list. "Okay—"

"Do I wanna know what's going on here?" Noah cut in.

Three sets of brown eyes shot toward the sheriff, but only Stiles seemed surprised to see him.

"Dad! Dad, hey. Hey, Dad," Stiles said, flailing a little, narrowly missing his orange juice.

"Hi, Mr. Stilinski." Scott waved.

"Morning, Dad," Mitch greeted. His shoulders were drooping and he looked tired like he could fall asleep again right there. "We're just having a friendly interrogation over breakfast."

"Except you're researching at the same time and you aren't paying attention," Stiles grumbled.

"What's Scott's job?" Noah asked.

"I'm the lie-detector," Scott piped up. "Stiles is paying me in food."

"I saved you some," Stiles told him. "But no bacon, and only one biscuit."

"No bacon?" Noah echoed. "Stiles, a man has to have his bacon."

"You're eating heart-healthy," Stiles insisted. "And don't even think about sneaking some. Scott will tell me."

Noah shook his head, smiling. "You kids have fun with your interrogation then," he said, heading for the kitchen.

Mitch and Scott waved while Stiles gave him a stern look.

Noah served up a generous portion of eggs, his one biscuit, and then snagged two pieces of bacon. Scott had his back. As long as he didn't take a lot, Scott would let it slide. Noah stuffed both pieces of contraband in his mouth and headed for the kitchen table.

* * *

"You bought the whole building!" Laura exclaimed. She tried not to sound too scandalized, but she wasn't doing very well. "But it's hideous!"

Derek pouted a little, then crossed his arms and scowled to recover his manliness.

Cora broke down laughing. "It's like a man-cave only a whole building."

"Well, I bought a sensible apartment downtown," Peter said, eyeing the building like it was both hilarious and an affront to his sense of aesthetic.

"No one's going to be hanging out there," Laura said, shooting Peter a glare. "I'd prefer not to get murdered again."

"Hey, I got murdered too!" Peter defended.

"Yes, and Stiles and Derek are my heroes," Laura said. "Too bad it didn't stick."

"I'm in much better control of my faculties now," Peter grumbled.

"That's debatable," Cora muttered.

"I bought it," Derek cut in loudly. "Because there aren't very many other buildings around, and none of them are consistently occupied. It's big, it's safe, and it's got running water."

"Does it have a kitchen?" Laura asked. "One that works?"

"Let's look," Derek said, striding forward.

Laura and Cora shared a dubious look while Peter shook his head in amusement and followed his nephew into the old building. The Hales wandered the building until the ended up in the only loft apartment with a working kitchen and a semi-clean bathroom. They scrounged around the rest of the building for a long table that was sort-of sturdy and a mismatched set of chairs. Most of the furniture in the building was in awful shape. They would need to throw the rest of it out.

"Well, it's a start," Cora said with a shrug as they surveyed their work.

"I'm glad I'm not living here," Peter commented, wandering over to the windows to take in the view.

"It'll work fine," Derek said. "I don't need much. I'll just put a bed in the corner there and—"

"Whoa, let me stop you right there, Der," Laura cut in. "We're not living like this."

Derek turned to give her a mutinous expression, eyes glinting red. Laura froze, still unused to seeing that look on her little brother, and Derek immediately backed-off.

"Sorry," he apologized, voice heavy with guilt and shame as his gaze dropped to the ground.

"Hey, it's okay," Laura said, coming up and wrapping her little brother in a hug. "Don't worry about it, Der. We've just got some things to work out, okay? And you've done your best. I know it's weird like this, but I'm glad you killed Uncle Peter."

"I said I was sorry," Peter whined.

"Shut up, Uncle Peter," Cora ordered. "You're ruining the moment."

"The moment's already ruined," Derek grumbled, still hugging Laura tightly.

"As I was saying," Laura said with a pointed glare at Peter. "You've done the right thing, Derek, so don't blame yourself. The universe has been screwing the Hales over for years. We'll roll with it."

Derek took a deep breath and nodded before pulling back.

"But I hope you like home improvement, Der, because, like I said, we're not living like this," Laura said firmly, pulling her phone out of her pocket.

"This is your own fault for buying this building," Cora informed him while Laura called.

Derek glared at her, and then Peter for good measure.

" _Hey, Laura, what's up?"_

The three other Hales gave Laura identical looks of surprise. They all knew Laura had been quickly becoming best friends with Mitch Stilinski, but he wasn't exactly in a position to help with home improvement at the moment.

"Hey, Mitch, I need Lydia's number," Laura said, inderecting answer the question on the faces of the rest of the Hales.

" _What for?"_

"I need her help with something," Laura said. "You gonna give me her number or not?"

" _Uh… she's not really got a handle on her powers right now so whatever you need—"_

"Lydia has powers?" Laura interrupted. "Other than her amazing sense of style?"

" _Oh, nevermind. Forget I said anything."_

Laura huffed. "I'll bug her about it when she gets here. Just give me her number, Stilinski. I need her assistance in completely mundane matters."

" _Alright, alright, I'll text it to you. Don't murder me, Hale."_

"Wrong Hale."

Mitch snorted on the other end of the line and hung up without ceremony.

"You're never gonna let me live this down," Peter remarked. "Even though I've already _died_."

"You deserved it," Cora responded airily.

"You know, we don't need Lydia's help." Peter looked at Derek. "I have plenty of—"

"I like Lydia more than you," Laura commented as a text comes in with Lydia's number.

"Except for the fact that she resurrected you," Derek said, wrinkling his nose.

"By mind-raping her," Laura reminded him, hitting the call button. "So I think now is a good time for you to go enjoy your sensible apartment downtown."

" _Hello?"_

"Lydia, it's Laura Hale," Laura greeted.

" _That was fast,"_ Lydia mused.

Laura's thought process derailed for a second. "What?"

" _Mitch warned me. What do you need?"_

Peter slinked out of the room. "I'll bring back dinner," he called over his shoulder.

"It's a bit of an emergency," Laura explained. "Derek bought an old abandoned building, and he wants to live here."

" _I suppose that's a step up from the old abandoned subway he was living in."_

"What?!" Laura exclaimed at the same time Cora did, both turning to give Derek incredulous looks.

" _Which was a step up from living in the ruins of your burned down family home in the Preserve."_

Cora shook her head in disbelief while Derek hunched his shoulders and glared at the phone like he could shut her down through force of will alone.

"Alright, well, I'll have to have words with him about proper living conditions," Laura said. "But if Cora and I are going to live here with him, then it needs to at least have drywall. Maybe some carpets. I don't know. That's why we need help. You're not going to subject us to taking Peter's advice, are you?"

" _Definitely not. Text me the address."_

* * *

Derek wasn't sure how they ended up having a pack night. Especially when there wasn't really a pack. Sure, he still had Isaac—for now—but Scott was the unofficial alpha of his own pack, which was Stiles and Allison and his mom, and maybe Lydia. Laura and Cora and Peter were his family, but they weren't technically pack, or at least not in the way they used to be. Mitch Stilinski was all on his own. Derek didn't know what Jackson was doing, and Boyd and Erica were gone.

However it happened, Derek's dusty new loft was suddenly filled with a total count of three Stilinskis, two McCalls, four Hales, Jackson, Isaac, Lydia, Deaton, and twenty boxes of pizza. When Derek had realized that many people were coming, he was prepared to deal with stilted silences, angry shouting, or maybe a small scale war.

But not this.

Derek looked around the loft in wonder, fighting the warmth growing in his chest. Melissa was sitting next to the Sheriff and talking to Laura about what it meant to be a werewolf. Deaton was speaking with Isaac about the animal clinic. Scott was alternating between enthusiastically throwing in a comment about what it was like to work at the clinic and helping Stiles explain to Cora how they had kept him from ripping out any throats when he first turned. In turn Cora was laughing at something about lacrosse balls and heart rates and Coach.

Lydia and Mitch were throwing ideas about the loft improvements back and forth. Peter was too, but Jackson was sitting between him and Lydia, glaring whenever he thought Lydia was too uncomfortable or he didn't like something Peter said.

It was almost… peaceful.

Derek knew he wasn't in charge of these people. The only one he could technically claim was Isaac, and he wasn't sure it would stay that way. And yet, the alpha in him rumbled happily at the sight before him. Derek fought it, because it wasn't true, but then his eyes skated over his two sisters. His living, breathing sisters. This was more than he thought he'd ever have back. So whatever this is, maybe it wasn't so bad. Derek decided he could pretend just for a little bit.

The group broke apart to clean up the pizza boxes and the paper plates and the empty bottles of soda. As they drifted back together, Derek found his eyes drawn to Mitch as he hobbled over to the window and set one crutch against the wall, leaning on just the one. His expression was pinched with worry and looked like he want to be pacing. But that's a bit impractical with crutches, so instead he chewed on his lip, drummed his fingers on his crutch, and dragged his free hand through his hair.

Derek wandered over to him. He hadn't spoken to the new Stilinski since that night at the animal clinic, which hadn't been the friendliest of interactions. But Laura liked him, and seemed to trust him. And Derek had heard of Mitch Stilinski before. He vaguely recalled Mia, a werewolf from New York that Derek had spoken with a few times, mentioning him. His name had popped up here and there over the years, enough that Derek knew of him, but never important enough that Derek remembered more than his general and reciprocated goodwill toward and from werewolfkind. In any case…

"I never thanked you," Derek said to announce his presence.

Mitch turned to look at him, unsurprised to see him there. He stopped worrying his lip and asked, "For what?"

"For saving Laura's life, and bringing Cora here too," Derek said, glancing over his shoulder to look at his sisters. "It means a lot to me."

"No need," Mitch said dismissively. "It was nothing."

Irritation rose at his words, and Derek held back a growl. "It wasn't nothing. They're my family, and I thought I didn't have any of that left. And as I understand it, saving Laura's life cost you months of time, among other things so—"

"Okay, okay, enough of the aggressive niceness, big guy," Mitch broke in, raising his hands in mock-surrender and smiling at him. "You're welcome. I was happy to do it, that's all I meant."

Derek's irritation subsided, now a little embarrassed, but refusing to show it. He cleared his throat, eager to move on. "Something else wrong?"

Mitch's smile faded, returning to his worried frown. "Yeah…"

Derek waited a second for Mitch to continue. When he didn't, Derek asked, "What is it?"

Mitch gaze swept over the room of distracted werewolves, humans, and other before facing the window. He deliberated a moment longer before he said quietly, "It's the alpha pack."

Derek sucked in a sharp breath. "How did you know about that?" he demanded quietly, putting his back to the room as well. It didn't give them any real privacy, but everyone else was distracted for the moment.

Mitch turned to him, surprised and confused. "You know?" His expression cleared a moment later. "That's why you bought the loft," he said like he'd just solved an old problem.

"How do you know then?" Derek questioned, frowning. "If you didn't know because of the sign they left on my door."

"I keep an eye on their movements when I can," Mitch replied. "They aren't exactly a positive influence on werewolf society. They're hard to find sometimes, but they've come here. And they're circling."

Derek felt worry for Erica and Boyd blooming in his gut. "How long do you think they've been… circling?"

"A couple of weeks," Mitch replied, staring out the window. "Maybe more. I'm not sure."

Derek clenched his hands into fists. "I…" He felt like a teenager again, drowning in the knowledge that he'd screwed up and didn't know what to do it about it. "I have—had, I had two betas—"

"Erica and Boyd," Mitch said turning to him with sad eyes. "They left a week or so ago, didn't they?"

"Just a couple days before the alphas painted their symbol onto my door," Derek admitted.

"Are Erica and Boyd in trouble?"

Derek and Mitch both turned at the sound of Isaac's voice. They had the whole room's attention now and the warm atmosphere had dissipated. Mitch looked to Derek, silently asking how he wanted to handle this situation, but Derek didn't know. He'd been a poor excuse for an alpha these past few months, and if the alpha pack really had Erica and Boyd… he'd been even worse of one than he'd thought.

"Most likely," Mitch answered Isaac.

"But they went looking for another pack," Scott spoke up. "They said—"

"The nearest pack is a long ways away," Mitch interrupted, shaking his head. "It's far more likely someone got to them."

"We're gonna get them back though, right?" Isaac said, eyes latching onto Derek and pleading.

Mitch reached up and squeezed Derek's shoulder, silently urging him. Derek met Laura's eyes, supportive and encouraging, and found the strength to say, "Yeah, yeah we are, Isaac."

"We'll help," Scott volunteered. "We all will, okay?"

Derek looked over the nodded faces all over the room. A dozen people willing to help him. Maybe he wasn't their alpha. Maybe they didn't really have an alpha, despite his red eyes. But maybe, just maybe, that didn't matter.

Maybe they were a pack anyway, and they could face this together.


	7. Building and Burning Bridges

The building Derek bought was in poor shape, but sound condition. After two weeks they'd cleared all the junk, stored anything salvageable in one of the rooms, and made the ground level parking garage usable. The three Hale siblings were staying in the room being converted into a gym while they renovated the loft apartment they intended to live in.

While the technical details of the building's electricity and plumbing and other essentials were being dealt with, the arguments regarding what would go into it were thriving. Lydia was fiercely arguing for hardwood floors, drywall, paint, and style. Derek was firmly on the spartan side. They were werewolves after all. They would inevitably ruin any amount of style Lydia could create.

Stiles had stayed decidedly out of the argument. As much as he would've loved to weigh in, he was far more interested in what Mitch was putting underneath the carpets and behind the paint. Stiles bypassed the three Hales, knowing they had already heard him enter the building and tromp up the stairs. He was sure they also knew he was headed up to the loft, so he didn't bother to tell them. When he reached the loft, the huge sliding doorway was already wide open, so Stiles wandered in unencumbered, scanning the room.

The sunset cast a dim purple light through the tall windows across the room, vaguely illuminating the barren space. Stiles' eyes roamed over the scattered sigils and symbols painted at indiscernible intervals on the walls and the floors. The only furniture in the room was a long plastic folding table with a couple of metal chairs. The table was covered in papers of plans and scribbles and a couple stacks of books. Most of the loose clutter was weighted down by pencils and highlighters and books, but several papers had slipped off onto the floor. A few spiral-bound notebooks were dangerously close to tipping off the edge.

On the side of the loft, sitting on the floor with his plaster cast stretched out, was Mitch. A can of paint, several brushes and markers, along with a pot of thick red liquid were scattered around him. His crutches lay abandoned behind him.

Stiles hesitated for a minute, just staring at him. They were getting along much better now. A few bumps along the way, but the last two weeks had been bearable, if not pleasant. Stiles might even say that while he still didn't completely trust Mitch, he was at least starting to like him. Their dad was ecstatic over that, so Stiles put a little more effort into 'bonding' with Mitch. He thought things were going okay so far. Adjusting the strap of his backpack, Stiles took a deep breath and headed over. He plopped down in front of the other Stilinski with his signature lack of grace and eyed the design Mitch was hunched over. "Hey," he greeted.

"Hey," Mitch returned, unconcerned and apparently unsurprised with Stiles' appearance, even though he looked completely absorbed in his art project.

"Didn't realize you'd already started magicking the place up," Stiles commented. "I thought they hadn't decided what they were gonna do about the renovations. Lydia and Derek are still arguing about it, and let me tell you, it's weird. They're arguing like an old married couple over colors and designs and options, and it freaks me out a little bit."

"Lydia's already decided on something they can compromise on, she's just arguing for the hell of it now," Mitch said, tracing his huge brush, thick with black paint, over the design he was copying from the sketchpad balanced on his knee. "She said she was just playing it so that when she suggests what she's already decided on, he'll agree, but personally I think she's enjoying herself a little too much."

Stiles snorted. He could believe that.

"Her designs are somewhere on the table," Mitch continued. His tired, sunken eyes flicked between the charcoal sketch and the floor in front of him. "She's going with utilitarian, modern chic, or something like that. I don't remember all the words she used."

"The kitchen still has to be put in though, right?" Stiles said, eyes sliding over to the far end of the room where the loft sported a huge hole in the wall. Last he'd listened to the argument, Lydia was insisting a kitchen be put in the room beyond, along with a dining area.

Mitch hummed in agreement. "I think she still wants to paint the walls and put in fancy lights, but she decided on rugs and some specific style of furniture that Laura is helping her pick out."

Stiles nodded. "Well," he began, pulling his backpack around into his lap. He unzipped it and pulled out a water bottle and a sandwich wrapped in plastic. "I was sent here with food, because Mama McCall called Papa Stilinski to ask about your food and meds, so Dad called Sister Hale because he didn't know, and Laura ratted you out."

Stiles waved the sandwich in front of Mitch's face, close enough to be obnoxious, and Mitch finally looked up.

"I have your meds too," Stiles said, setting the water bottle down to fish through his backpack for them. He then insistently waved those in Mitch's face too.

Grimacing a little, Mitch took the sandwich in his free hand, charcoal smudged fingers transferring it from Stiles' hand to his lap. "Thanks," he said, unenthusiastically.

Stiles set the meds down next the water bottle and waited pointedly for Mitch to eat, because he sensed a diversion building. It was too much of a Stilinski trait for Stiles not to see it coming miles away.

"So, you got roped into babysitting duty then," Mitch said lightly, dipping his brush into the can of black paint and touching it to the floor. "Or did you volunteer? Told you I was growing on you."

"Mitch," Stiles said, pitching his voice low and giving him his best, stern dad-stare. "I have been forcing healthy meals into my dad for years, there's no hope for you. Don't fight it. Just eat your dinner."

Mitch sighed, grabbing the sandwich, only to set it aside on the floor. "I had something earlier."

"Dude, I'm extremely disappointed you even tried that," Stiles said.

"I'll eat it later then," Mitch said, scowling and dropping his eyes back down to his design. His fingers gripped the brush tightly as a tense line appeared along his shoulders. "I'm a little busy here."

With a gusty sigh, Stiles reached over Mitch's outstretched leg and grabbed the plastic-wrapped sandwich. "Also a lie," he said, holding it up between them.

"I'm not hungry," Mitch said. His eyes were riveted to the paint drying on the floor, but he made no move to continue.

Stiles frowned. "Well, that's not a lie at least. But Mrs. McCall said you need to eat before you take your meds."

"I can do without," Mitch mumbled.

With his currently strategy meeting a brick wall, Stiles paused to examine the challenge. In so many ways Mitch resembled his father, but also reminded Stiles a lot of himself. His hair was long and un-cared for, unkempt in messy waves that made him looked more tired than artfully just-out-of-bed. His eyelids were heavy, the bags under his eyes purple, and his face gaunt. He looked far worse than when he'd first arrived in the heat of battle, limping heavily but fighting fit. Now he looked frail enough for Stiles to push over with a finger. In short, he looked exhausted.

Stiles considered what to do. He still felt a little off-kilter when it came to Mitch, but he'd come to several conclusions over the past two weeks. One, the man gave Stiles and his dad a run for their money overworking himself, nearly to the point of collapse. Two, he was incredibly concerned about keeping them safe, if the wards, talismans, and protections he was throwing up all over the place were any indication. And three, he was possibly the saddest, most depressed, most self-recriminating person Stiles had ever met. And that included Derek, who was only getting better these days with the return of two of his sisters. So Stiles made a decision and gestured with sandwich and the little bottle of pain medication.

"Well, I wholly disagree with you on that point," he announced. "It's my job, as your little brother, to make sure you don't kill yourself. Which you're going to do if you don't eat, drink, and sleep like the rest of us mortal men."

Mitch raised his eyes from the floor to scrutinize him. Stiles thought he looked both confused and sad at the same time, but he could just be imagining things. How much can you really figure out from staring into someone's eyes anyway?

"You sure that's a little brother's job?" Mitch asked at last, voice soft.

"I'm a Stilinski, if I say it's my job, it's my job," Stiles told him. "I hereby designate myself the Enforcer in this family. It's my job to make sure all rules and regulations are followed. So, Stilinski Rule Number 1: Healthy food and requisite medication must be consumed on the daily."

A small smile twitched the corners of Mitch's mouth and crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Even when working on important projects?"

"Especially," Stiles said firmly, shoving the sandwich insistently against Mitch's chest. "Can't have anyone passing out while working on Important Projects, now can we?"

"No," Mitch agreed, finally taking the sandwich and unwrapping it. "I guess not."

"Glad that's settled," Stiles said, giving Mitch a pointed look. He flicked his eyes meaningfully down to the sandwich and back up.

Mitch snorted. He set down his brush and took an exaggerated bite of the turkey and cheese.

"Woohoo!" Stiles cheered with the loudest, most obnoxious applause he could manage. "You did it!"

In retaliation Mitch leaned forward and stabbed Stiles in the side with his fingers. A jolt like a strong static shock zipped through his side. Stiles yelped and flailed backward onto the floor.

"Brat," Mitch said smugly, taking another bit of the sandwich.

"What the hell was that?!" Stiles squeaked, clutching his tingling ribs.

"Magic," Mitch deadpanned.

Stiles sat up slowly, poking at his tender side. "Would… would you teach me how to do that?" he asked tentatively, bracing for some sort of 'it takes years,' 'you're still young,' or 'you either have the power or you don't.'

"Yeah sure," Mitch said, grabbing the water bottle and unscrewing the cap. "The basics aren't hard. I wasn't much older than you when I started."

"Really?" Stiles said, mind returning to the police reports he'd read regarding his mysterious older brother. "But that means you've only been practicing for like, ten years."

"Sounds about right," Mitch agreed. "Why?"

Stiles twisted his fingers but decided he didn't feel guilty about all the slightly-illegal digging he'd done. "The reports said you were raised in a cult."

"Reports? Oh yeah…" Mitch's eyes gained a faraway look and he smiled nostalgically. "Man, that was one overzealous detective. He was pretty convinced I was part of a really elaborate conspiracy theory. And believe me, telling him I was raised in a cult did not help my case at all."

"I guess I just figured that meant you'd known about the supernatural all your life and you'd been doing magic since you were little," Stiles said carefully, knowing that pushing this subject was a surefire way to shut Mitch off, and he really wanted to learn magic.

Mitch shrugged a little at his question. "Feels that way sometimes."

"You weren't really raised in a cult, were you?" Stiles guessed, unable to keep that observation to himself.

"Another time, a whole different world," Mitch said vaguely, finishing off the sandwich.

Stiles took the non-answer for whatever it was. He'd figure it out one day. "Alright, so I obviously don't need a wand."

"You could use one for certain things," Mitch told him. "But no, you don't need one to start."

Since Mitch seemed in no hurry to take his pills, Stiles opened the bottle and dumped two into his hand and held them out. "Where do I start then?"

Mitch took the pills with a grimace, grabbing the water bottle and downing them in on quick swallow. "Basically, it's the power of belief."

Stiles groaned. "Like with the mountain ash? I believe, and it'll happen?"

"Not quite," Mitch said, smiling. "But it is about force of will. Think of it sort of like the Force. What we call magic is everywhere, in everything. When we use it, we call on the magic that's all around us and essentially ask it do things for us. The hard part is magic is basically a force of nature, and we have to harness its energy. The simplest way to do that involves herbs, symbols, and words. It grounds our will and sort of focuses the question, if that makes sense. Helps the magic know exactly what we want."

"Because if it doesn't know exactly what we want it won't work?" Stiles guessed.

"Right." Mitch nodded. "Or it'll get out of hand, do more than you wanted or not exactly what you wanted. Not because it's malicious, but because it's wild and untamed, so unless you tie down the specifics, it… seeps through the cracks, I guess. Like, if I said I wanted to use magic 'to speak French' instead of using magic 'to be able to speak French.' Magic is so unpredictable that those two might have the same effect, or with the first one I might end up only able to speak French instead of being able to speak it along with English."

"Okay, got it," Stiles nodded. "Very dangerous to make mistakes."

"Not always dangerous," Mitch corrected. "Just terribly inconvenient and difficult to fix sometimes."

"What about when you zapped me in the side just now?" Stiles asked, fingers reflexively pressing against his ribs.

"That's about as much as I can do without a focus, like a special staff or runes or something like that," Mitch explained. "If you want to be able to magic like that, shaping it only with your will and nothing to aid you, you have to have crazy amounts of power inside you. Otherwise you'd essentially burn up with all that energy running wild through you. That amount of magic would probably kill you, not to mention whatever magic was gathered would just go haywire, which could be anything from an explosion to warping reality, depending on what you were trying to do."

Well, that sounded terrible. Stiles swallowed his suddenly dry throat. "So not recommended," Stiles said faintly.

"No, it's not," Mitch agreed. "But we probably wouldn't hurt much beyond ourselves if we screwed up. I'm not very powerful, and you probably aren't either. Most people aren't. A lot of formidable magic users aren't super powerful either. They've just accumulated a lot of knowledge and experience, and they're smart about it."

"How do you get to be super powerful?" Stiles couldn't help but ask.

"If you aren't born with it, or it doesn't grow naturally inside of you then it's very difficult and usually very wrong to get that amount of power," Mitch said, a warning note clear in his voice. "Human sacrifices is one way."

"Human sacrifices!?" Stiles squeaked.

"Or taking it from someone else, like a beta killing an alpha. That's usually how werewolf magic transfers," Mitch said.

"The alpha pack," Stiles wondered. "Are those alphas… more powerful than Derek? Like, individually."

"Yeah, definitely," Mitch replied without hesitation.

"Comforting." Stiles grimaced.

"They didn't just take their alpha's power," Mitch explained. "They've killed their own packs, gaining the power from each beta werewolf. They're each crazy powerful in a way Derek, especially with a smaller, splintered pack, never would be."

"I like the sound of those odds," Stiles muttered.

"Which is probably why it's a good idea for you to learn some magic," Mitch said, twisting around to grab his crutches. "You guys'll need all the help you can get."

* * *

When Noah got home from work, neither of his sons were there. It wasn't such a surprise, so Noah showered and caught a few hours of sleep before he headed over to the run-down building Derek had bought. He pulled up next to Stiles' Jeep, and climbed out, taking note of the other cars. The Hale Camaro, Mitch's truck, and something ridiculously expensive that probably belonged to Peter Hale.

Noah entered the building and started trudging up the steps, puffing a little after the second flight. He needed to petition for an elevator. As he passed the last level before his destination, Laura poked her out of a door. "Hey there, Sheriff," she greeted him.

"Good morning, Laura," Noah responded, grateful for an excuse to stop for a moment. "Came home to an empty house."

Laura nodded in understanding. "They're upstairs. Fell asleep doing magic, I think. We didn't listen in too much."

"How much is too much?" Noah asked pointedly.

Laura only grinned. "They're doing better, Sheriff," Laura told him, expression relaxing into a kind smile. "I even think they're going to be okay."

Warmth filled his chest. "Thanks, Laura."

Laura nodded and waved him off. "Go on, we're planning breakfast. I'll let you know when the kiddies get here. Should just be a few minutes."

Noah laughed. "Thanks, Laura," he repeated.

He finished his trek up to the loft and smiled at what he saw. Stiles was asleep on the floor by the windows, head pillowed on Mitch's army jacket. He looked peaceful, though he'd probably be sore from sleeping on a metal floor when he woke up. The owner of the aforementioned jacket was slumped over the one table in the room, scribbling away in one of his many spiral notebooks.

Noah sighed. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"Yeah, for a bit," Mitch said, looking up to give him a half-smile. It was probably meant to be reassuring, but the motion only accentuated his lack of energy.

"I think we need to talk about that," Noah said, taking the chair across from his son.

"Nah, that's fine," Mitch said airily. "Thanks though."

"Mitch," Noah scolded. "You're backsliding. You've hardly slept, you barely eat, and don't think we haven't noticed when you don't take your medication."

"Yes, well, I did get my leg snapped and spent some time in another dimension, among other things," Mitch said, cutting off a yawn and blinking rapidly against the tiredness of his eyes. "Tends to put a guy off some things."

"That's what the sleeping and the medication are for," Noah pointed out.

"I can't get things done on those meds," Mitch replied. "It makes me too tired."

"You're already tired. You should sleep," Noah reiterated, feeling like he'd said this a thousand times already. Maybe he had.

"Too much to do," Mitch said, motioning to the papers and books of research and plans spread out between them.

Noah pressed his mouth together in a firm, disapproving line as he examined his son. Mitch had taken a lot of hits over the years, and he had never seemed to drag out his recovery like this before. "Something else is bothering you."

"Lots of things are bothering me," Mitch hedged, looking away.

"Is it the alpha pack?" Noah prodded. "Didn't you deal with them before?"

Mitch sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. "That's the problem, Dad," he whispered. "None of this was supposed to happen. I didn't plan on dealing with them like this. It was going to be different, the people were going to be different, we were going to be prepared for it. But we're still at a huge disadvantage. And with my situation among other things, we don't have many more advantages than we had the first time. I just don't know how to handle this."

"I don't believe that," Noah said. "You've probably got a dozen different plans running through your head."

"Yeah, but I don't like any of them," Mitch said, scrunching up his face in distaste just thinking about it. "There are a lot of different options, and all of them have heavy consequences."

"Well, I can't pretend to know all the things you're taking into consideration," Noah said, "but I would recommend the plan with the least chance of casualties."

Mitch drummed his fingers on the table, thinking it over. "I don't think you would like that plan very much."

"Would I like any of them?" Noah asked.

"Probably not," Mitch admitted.

They were silent for a moment, mulling over everything that had been said, when something occurred to Noah. "Mitch," he said quietly. "If you've… if you've dealt with them before… does that mean you know where those missing kids are? Erica and Boyd?"

Mitch stilled, and deliberately did not meet his eyes. His hesitation to speak answered the question for him.

"Mitch?!" Noah all but hissed, horrified by the idea that these kids were suffering, and Mitch could have already stopped it.

"It isn't that simple!" Mitch hurried to say, voice kept low.

"But you know where they are?" Noah pressed.

"I'm not for sure," Mitch avoided.

"Bullshit," Noah growled, crossing his arms.

"Look, this pack is in no position to take on the alphas right now," Mitch said. "Deucalion would tear them apart."

"They don't have to take them on," Noah argued, voice low but angry. "They just have to rescue those two kids. I can't believe you'd keep this from them and let them chase their tails trying to find Erica and Boyd. And what about their parents? They're families are worried sick about them, Mitch!"

"I know what I'm doing," Mitch snapped.

"You know where they are?"

Noah and Mitch both startled at the sound of Derek's voice, turning toward the entryway. Belatedly, Noah realized that he was probably here to invite them down to breakfast. How much had he heard before he'd spoken?

"Where are they?" Derek demanded.

"No," Mitch said, pushing his chair back and grabbing his crutches. "You'll only get yourselves killed."

"You don't get to decide that," Derek growled. "Where are they?"

"I think I get to decide what I tell people," Mitch said, boosting himself unsteadily onto his one good leg. "And I won't tell you this."

"So you'd just leave them there?" Derek spat, claws curling into fists by his sides. "To be tortured by the alphas."

"He's right, Mitch," Noah said, standing too. "They're just kids."

"They're all kids, Dad," Mitch said coldly, jaw clenched. "And they're all going to get hurt."

"They could die!" Derek barked.

Mitch moved toward the doorway determinedly, stopping when Derek moved to block his way.

"You all could die if you go after them," Mitch said, glaring.

"So the other night, when you promised to help me look for them," Derek said, shifting to keep Mitch from going around him. "That meant nothing."

"I made no promises," Mitch said stiffly. "Get out of my way."

Mitch made a move to step past him, and Derek grabbed him by the shirt, slamming him up against the doorframe with a guttural snarl. His eyes flared with the heat of his red irises.

"Derek!" Noah called out in protest.

"Tell me where they are!" Derek ordered around his fangs.

Mitch snarled back. "Let go."

"Not until you—"

Mitch shoved his hands into Derek's chest. With an electric pulse, Derek flew backward, hitting the opposite frame. The werewolf roared as several ribs snapped. Mitch stared for a moment, the anger in his eyes fading to something sadder. He turned back to Noah.

"Sorry, Dad." His eyes flicked past him. "Sorry, kid."

He stooped to pick up one of his crutches, leaving the other where it had skittered across the floor a few feet away. He'd taken three steps when Laura came charging up the stairs.

"What's going on?" she exclaimed. "Derek?!"

Mitch let her hurry past and left without giving her time to demand answers. He sidestepped Cora and disappeared around the corner.

Noah turned around to see Stiles standing, watching everything that happened with his fists clenched. He was holding himself together well, but Noah knew his son well enough to know he was devastated. Noah sighed, and did the only thing he could think to do. He pulled his son into a hug and lied to him.

"Everything's going to be okay, son."

* * *

Stiles couldn't decide if he'd rather punch something or just cry. Both options were equally inviting. That… what had happened, that was definitely not how he'd wanted things to go. He hadn't imagined it turning out like that. But, he supposed, he should know better than to play with secrets like this. It always came back to bite him. He felt a little bad about breaking Derek's ribs, but he was an alpha. He was probably mostly healed by now anyway.

With a heavy breath of frustration, Stiles pulled himself together and slid out of the cab of his truck. He landed on his good foot and only wobbled a little bit before grabbing his crutch and swinging the door shut.

"Didn't expect you to come here of all places."

Stiles jumped and skittered sideways a bit, catching himself on the bed of his truck. "Jackson? What are you doing here?"

"Followed you," Jackson said with a satisfied smirk.

"Proud of that, huh?" Stiles grumbled, holding a hand over his racing heart as if that would help calm it down.

"You are hard to sneak up on," Jackson pointed out. "But you seem kind of out of it right now."

Stiles didn't deny it, only straightened and climbed onto the sidewalk. "You heard then?"

"Everyone heard," Jackson scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Derek wasn't quiet about it. I just decided not to stick around for the argument."

"I figured everyone would be on the same page for this one," Stiles said as casually as he could manage, heading for the entrance to the diner he'd chosen for breakfast. As much as he'd lost his appetite these past couple weeks, he'd need as much energy as he could get for tonight. He'd already put this off for too long, he should act now.

"Probably," Jackson agreed, following him inside. "But now they'll all argue about what to do about it."

"And you?" Stiles asked, limping over to a booth that would put his back to the wall.

"I don't really care," Jackson said with a shrug. "Erica and Boyd aren't my friends or my pack."

Stiles shook his head as Jackson slid into the seat opposite of him. "You don't disagree with me on principle?" he asked, but honestly, he wasn't surprised.

"I'm sure you've got your reasons," Jackson said with a shrug.

Stiles couldn't help but laugh a little. Jackson was the same as Stiles remembered him—superior, douchey, and self-centered. But even though they'd come to trust each other, work together, and fight together, he's pretty sure he'd never been in a position where Jackson unquestioningly trusted his judgement. It was strange. Nice, in a way, but still strange.

The waitress came over and they ordered their breakfasts quickly and without looking at the menu. After she returned with their coffee, Jackson asked, "So, what are you going to do now?"

"I'm still… figuring it out," Stiles replied slowly, taking a sip of his coffee. "There are plenty of threats lurking around Beacon Hills, and I'd rather head them off early than deal with an escalation of conflicts until I've got more enemies than I can manage."

"How many can you manage?" Jackson asked idly.

"Definitely no more than four," Stiles said seriously. "But that all depends on their levels of badassery."

"One arch-nemesis at a time," Jackson replied with a nod.

Stiles laughed. "Sounds like solid advice to me."

"You just gonna ignore the rest of them then?" Jackson asked, waving his hand in a vague way to represent the Pack, if it could even be called that at this point.

"Probably," Stiles agreed, then amended, "maybe. It depends on if they try to get in my way, I suppose."

Jackson tapped his fork against his plate. "And if they get in your way?"

Stiles laughed. "I hope you aren't expecting some dark, vague, and villainous statement in response to that."

Jackson shrugged. "Just wondering."

Stiles shook his head and smiled a little. "If they do, then I'll have to waste some effort in getting them off my case. They aren't the bad guys here, even if they can be a little ridiculous sometimes."

"Guess so," Jackson agreed with a huff. "So you've got this all under control then? The alpha pack will be out of here in no time?"

"Hmm, I'll deal with the alpha pack in a bit," Stiles mused, drumming his fingers on his mug. "First, I've got to deal with a bigger threat. Then we'll see about the alphas, and Erica and Boyd. That said, I'd rather they knew as little as possible about what I'm up to. It'll be dangerous if they interfere."

Jackson nodded, and then breakfast arrived, so he didn't push the subject further.

* * *

Julia stepped back from her vase of flowers to observe the little apartment she'd rented for her stay in Beacon Hills. She doubted she'd end up spending much time here, but she needed to keep up appearances. Most of her teaching materials would end up staying at school and she planned to do most of her work there. The apartment was a mostly a precaution, but it's always nice to have a bed to sleep in and your own bathroom and shower.

It was spartan but furnished with enough little feminine touches that, should she need to bring someone back here (doubtful), no one would question it.

Julia held back a yawn, tired from her busywork for the day. She shook off the weariness and went to close the curtains hanging over the windows overlooking the street. She was a couple of months early, but that was necessary to get everything in order for the school year. She was going to be teaching English Literature, and the schools had curriculums and procedures that had to be reviewed before the semester started. Julia wasn't worried. Once upon a time, when she'd been young and bright-eyed, she'd studied literature. Kali hadn't seen much of point when Julia was training to be her emissary at the same time, but the alpha humored her.

Julia grimaced as thoughts of Kali invaded her mind and she forcefully refocused on what she should be doing now. First and foremost, she needed to locate the Nemeton and the ley lines. The ley lines would be easy enough to map out, but she knew she would need to work hard to find the sacred Nemeton itself. She was confident in her ability to find it though. Or convince it to let her find it. Whatever it took, Julia wasn't worried about that either.

Wandering over to the bathroom, Julia found her face in the mirror; pretty, brunette, and sweet. The plan to get in Derek Hale's good graces didn't worry her either. She knew a lot about him. She'd even met him a few times, and befriended him twice, though not with this face. No doubt his sister's death had changed him, but Julia was sure that he would be just as easy to win over as before. Julia spared a moment to regret that Laura was dead. She'd actually liked the she-wolf. But Derek needed to be the alpha. If Laura hadn't died by her uncle, Julia might've had to kill her herself. But as it was, everything seemed to be working out well. Better than she could ever have hoped. This was going to work.

Satisfied that she had everything under control, Julia moved away from the mirror and considered the one thing she was worrying about. Well, maybe not worry, but she was at least a little concerned. Someone had been looking for her. Or at least, asking around about her. Julia was still working to figure out who it was, but they had been asking for her using her real name—Julia Baccari. Everyone who knew her by that name was supposed to either be dead or believe her dead. She'd gone over everyone she'd known from those days, but for all her searching she found nothing. Julia was careful, and extra cautious about covering her tracks, but she could admit to being a little nervous. Someone was after Julia Baccari, _The Darach_ , and she didn't know who, why, or how.

She'd have to be on her guard, but it was hard when she didn't know who to be on guard against. Still, it helped that she was already hiding everything about herself she could. All her current documents had no link to her past beyond her face and the matching initials. Maybe those weren't the smartest ideas, but this was it. This was her time, her revenge, and she wanted to face it as close to herself as she could. It should be impossible to connect her to who she was unless you were Kali or Deucalion.

Julia leaned against the wall and massaged her temples. A deep ache was building at the base of her skull and she felt tired in her bones. More tired than she'd felt in a long time. Ridiculously tired, honestly, considering that she hadn't worked that hard today. She'd run a couple of errands, decorated, eaten, planned, nothing strenuous. Julia's heart leaped even as she stilled against the wall. She was unnaturally tired, and while a normal person would brush it off and go to bed early, Julia was not your average person. She was highly paranoid darach who knew just what magic could do. And she hadn't finished setting up the wards on her little apartment.

Her brief paranoia was her only warning before her attacker was on her. Julia moved just enough that a thick, wicked dagger was buried up to the hilt in her wall instead of her neck. She spun around to face her attacker. She called all the magic inside her to the surface and raised her hands, searching for a target. For a long, tense moment the apartment was still, and she would've believed she'd imagined everything if not for the weapon buried in the wall. Her natural power pulsed through her blood.

A twitch of sound from her right, one she didn't even take time to identify, had her whirling around and sending her power through the air in a huge gust of wind. It knocked over the little table and the simple lamp. The vase of flowers and the light bulb both crashed and cascaded across the hardwood, but no one was there.

Julia spun around again. "Where are you?" she hissed. "Show yourself!"

Her stomach twisted painfully and her head pounded against her adrenaline. She knew with a terrible certainty in her chest that whoever was attacking her now had poisoned her or drugged her somehow. It was probably whoever had been looking for her. Someone was after her. She staggered, then had to drop to her hands and knees as another knife whooshed through the air.

Julia wrapped her power around herself like a cloak, a shield, and a security blanket. Eyes skating over the empty apartment, Julia realized her attacker must be some distance away. Whether they were powerful or just clever, she didn't know. It didn't matter though. She wasn't safe here and didn't have to the strength to track them down and kill them in her current disadvantage.

When the next knife cut through the air, she saw it phase through her wall and come straight for her heart. Her power solidified in front of her and the knife embedded itself in it midair. Julia whimpered. It was sharp, so sharp it ripped at her very being. Trembling, Julia reached out and grabbed the handle. She sunk deep into its aura, closing her eyes and feeling her awareness zip along the strings of power until she reached its creator. Tensing up with magic, Julia reeled back and delivered the strongest blow she could to her attacker. The buzz of the knife handle faded, losing its aura and then dissolving into ash.

Collapsing onto the floor, Julia rolled onto her back. With a grim smile, she wiped away the blood trickling from her nose. Her opponent had underestimated her power. She wouldn't do the same, but first she needed to get out of Beacon Hills and regroup. With a groan she rolled up and pushed herself to her feet. She didn't know how long her attacker would be out, so she needed to get out now. This might be a bit of a setback, but she had contingency plans. Nothing was going to come between her and her revenge. Or her and Derek Hale, for that matter.

* * *

Going after the darach so early had been a gamble. And unfortunately, it hadn't paid off. At best, he'd pushed back her plans and put her on the defensive. At worst, he'd put her on guard and lost all sense of foreknowledge he had. Stiles sighed, scrubbing his face and grimacing at the flaking dried blood that came off. Julia Baccari was far more powerful than he thought she'd be considering the lack of human sacrifices. After she'd knocked him on his ass, he'd woken up bleeding from his eyes, ears, and nose, as well as feeling completely sore all over.

He'd risked going back to the house to clean up, relieved to find the place empty. A shower, fresh change of clothes, and quick bite to eat later, he was rejuvenated as he could be without sleeping for a week. He limped back to his truck, still on one crutch, and managed to clamber back into the driver's seat. With a heavy exhale he pulled out his stash of magical pain medication and caffeine, quite a bit more potent than the natural stuff. In the past he'd used it as sparingly as he could so the kick was still strong. After knocking back a couple of foul-tasting potions and a few pills, Stiles had to blink and shake his head at the sudden clarity in his mind. He felt stronger than he had in months. Years, if you wanted to count the time in the fae realm. Stretching his abused body and wiggling his toes, Stiles grimaced a little. He'd need everything he had for his next task. The alpha pack.

Stiles rolled his shoulders and turned the key in the ignition. The truck engine rumbled, and Stiles drove out of his childhood neighborhood. The drive to the bank was slow, while Stiles ran through what he wanted to do. It was going to be strange to approach the alpha pack like this, alone. Especially since Deucalion had ended up a valuable ally in the end, even after Scott was gone. Stiles was going to have to bluff his way through a lot of things, which was always terrifying when there are superwerewolves around, but he'd had plenty of practice. If he went into this treating Deuc like the one he knew and trusted, he might just make this through with not only his life, but his plan intact.

Stiles pulled into the desolate parking lot, pleased to see a car tucked into the corner of the lot. The alphas preferred to travel by foot, and they were definitely fast enough and stealthy enough for them to not need a car to get places. But a car was still useful, and it would've been stupid of them not to have one. Stiles imagined it was helpful in transporting a pair of teenage betas.

Shutting off his truck, Stiles spared a moment to feel the guilt of allowing Erica and Boyd to go through this. Without Cora, he was pretty sure the alphas wouldn't kill Erica when she acted out, but Stiles didn't plan on giving them enough time to get tired of her and settle for just one beta. He'd get them out, they'd just have to suffer a little longer for what he had planned. It sucked, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Stiles was a little horrified about how easy it was for him to make this choice. Firmly reminding himself that this was the plan with the least casualties possible—hopefully just him—Stiles shoved his keys in his pocket and his door open. He neatly compartmentalized his dad's disappointment, the painful reminder of how lively and eager he used to be, and the gut-wrenching starry-eyed idealism he'd seen in Scott again.

His good foot hit the ground first, then his boot, then his crutch. Turning toward the bank, he saw the door open and Kali skulking in the shadows. With an easy smile, Stiles began to make his way towards her. His walk was awkward with the heavy boot, but nothing like the hobble he'd been sporting for the last month.

Kali watched him without comment, though her eyebrows rose when Stiles hopped easily up the stairs to the bank.

"Kali," Stiles greeted, unsurprised when she remained blocking the doorway. He projected an aura of easy familiarity and offered her a respectful but dignified nod. "I'd like to speak to Deucalion, if he's around."

Kali considered him for a long moment, long toenails tapping idly against the stone floor. "Are you here for the betas?"

Stiles shook his head. "I'm not," he told her, no lie. "I'm only here to speak to Deucalion."

Kali's eyes flicked past him, searching for friends or followers or an ambush. "Alright," she said at last. "I'll bring you to him. No guarantees he'll want to talk though. He might just rip your throat out."

Stiles hummed in consent and followed Kali into the old bank. "More likely he'd let you do it, but it doesn't matter. He'll talk to me."

Kali let the door shut with a bang, and then set out with long strides that would've been cruel if Stiles hadn't just pumped himself full of magical medication. When they reached Deucalion, he was standing by the vault, waiting for them. Stiles didn't know if he heard them from the front of the bank, or if Ennis or one of the twins had played errand boy. In the end, it didn't matter.

Stiles walked right up to Deucalion, stopping five feet away and meeting his eyes through the blind man's glasses. "Deucalion."

Deucalion considered him silently, waiting for Stiles to fill in the silence. When he didn't, Deucalion said, "You've a lot of nerve, coming here like this. You'll have to convince me not to kill you."

"If you want," Stiles said, purposely taking the weight off his crutch. Deucalion more than anyone understood that a weakness could be a ruse or a misdirection, and Stiles would like him to think that Stiles was in the same boat he was. "But I'm not here on behalf of anyone but myself, so you won't have to worry about me telling the Hale pack you're here." Not that Deucalion would trust that, but Stiles could convince him. "I'm Mitch Stilinski." He allowed half a beat to see if either Deucalion or Kali would interject, then carried on like he hadn't expected them to say anything at all. "I have a warning for you."

Kali growled behind him. A second, sub-vocal growl that skittered through his bones echoed from his right, and Stiles' eyes found Ennis lurking down the hallway.

Stiles rolled his eyes a little. "Not a threat, a sincere warning. I'm assuming you've come to Beacon Hills for a potential addition to your numbers. While I'm not sure any of the werewolves here are worth that, I think you should know there are other threats in Beacon Hills. A darach has come to Beacon Hills and hopes to use the Nemeton here to gain power."

A hiss from Kali, and a real growl from Ennis. Deucalion took a moment to consider that. "Troubling for the town, but not something that will hinder us. A darach is no more than an emissary seeking power."

"Great power," Stiles corrected. "And with the eclipse coming later this year, you can imagine that there are certain werewolves she wants to use that power against."

"She?" Deucalion echoed. "You know this darach?"

Stiles cursed the slip but forged ahead as if he didn't mind either way. "In passing. She doesn't know me, and I hope it stays that way. But regardless, I know enough to know she's planning to make a mess for everyone currently in Beacon Hills, and you aren't exempt."

"And you?" Deucalion asked. "How do you factor in to this? Are you the stalwart protector of Beacon Hills?"

Stiles ignored the tease and carried on, knowing he was close to either having Deucalion either trust him or dismiss (read: kill) him. "I haven't been in Beacon Hills longer than you have. But my father lives here. He's the sheriff, and he'll be involved if things go crazy in this town. I'm hoping to avoid that, nothing more."

"We've heard of you, Mr. Stilinski," Deucalion admitted, stepping forward with no pretense of using his cane. "You're known for helping werewolf packs when they need it."

Stiles smiled and said carefully, keeping his heart steady, "Didn't really hit it off with this one."

Deucalion lowered his glasses, red eyes boring into Stiles' own. "Then what is it that you want form us? Help defeating this darach?"

Stiles shook his head. "I'll take care of the darach. If you insist on staying here in Beacon Hills—"

"We do," Deucalion assured him.

"—then I just request that if my father somehow gets mixed up in this and gets in your way, you won't harm him when you go around him," Stiles finished.

"That's all?" Deucalion pushed, inhuman eyes boring into Stiles' soul.

"I'm hoping you won't get in my way either," Stiles said. "But I don't foresee us giving each other any trouble. Maybe if the opportunity comes along, we can help each other."

The two of them eyed each other a long moment. Deucalion had already admitted to knowing who he was, so Stiles didn't need to enumerate the ways he'd be useful. And this was the alpha pack, their power was unmistakable, and it was easily understandable why Stiles would want them for allies.

Deucalion smiled a little and replaced his tinted glasses. "Walk with me, Mitch." He reached out and put a hand on Stiles' elbow.

Stiles snorted at the move and placed his crutch back under his arm. They turned to walk down the hall of the bank, a cripple and blind man, and began to talk.


End file.
